


Mindstones and Other Malfunctions

by HunterPeverell



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1930s, 1940s, Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Mind Games, Mind Stone, Mind Walking, POV Sam Wilson, Pain, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Torture, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Psychological Torture, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Torture, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-07 04:32:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6785347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HunterPeverell/pseuds/HunterPeverell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CAPTAIN AMERICA CIVIL WAR SPOILERS</p><p>The mind is a complex thing--it is filled with secrets, with horrors, and with joy. It has pain, suffering, and loss. Go back ten, twenty years, to when you were a kid, and you might have been happier. Go back seventy . . . Well, the mind of James Buchannan Barnes is a dark, sad place. Sam realizes it may not have always been that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 한국어 available: [마인드 스톤과 오작동 문제들](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8393542) by [Dummy_pilgrim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dummy_pilgrim/pseuds/Dummy_pilgrim)



> I've never really written Tony or the other Avengers before, so you're going to have to tell me if I did okay. As it said in the summary, there are spoilers. This takes place Post CW. Most of this is from Sam's POV. The only ship I'm doing is Stucky, though there are hints and teases of the others. You've been warned.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine, none of it.

Sam wasn’t sure how Tony Stark found them. To be honest, he didn’t really care. Stark wasn’t quite his enemy—Steve had always spoken highly of him, even when discussing their fights—but he certainly wasn’t Sam’s friend. His chest still hurt from where Stark had blasted him.

Sam, Wanda, Clint, and Scott were all huddled somewhere in Europe. Though Clint had “retired,” his bolt holes were still around for situations like this.

“Well, not exactly like this,” Clint had admitted as he led them into the house just outside a little village that was well on its way to becoming a ghost town. “But, y’know, in case of emergency, I guess.”

“Man, I’m just glad to be out of a cell,” Sam had replied fervently as Clint let them into a small living room with a table, three chairs, and a couch.

“Yeah, I guess none of us really expected to follow Captain America into being fugitives,” Scott said. He blinked, and hastily tacked on, “Not that I disagree with his views. I totally see where he’s coming from—”

“We get it,” Sam muttered, sitting on one of the rickety chairs. It was the only one with four complete legs, which Wanda discovered when she tried to sit on another one and almost fell over when one of the legs decided to tip—it was an inch shorter than the others were. Clint and Scott took the worn couch, stuffing oozing from the cushions.

They had no idea where Cap was. He had taken Barnes and disappeared into the wind with their blessing. Sam knew Steve’s focus was Barnes and only Barnes.

Sam couldn’t imagine what it would be like if he had discovered Riley had been turned into a monster.

“So, my place is yours,” Clint had said, waving his arm dramatically around.

There were three rooms total—the main room, with a kitchen tucked in the corner and two bedrooms with two cots each.

“This’ll be fine,” Sam had said, looking around. He meant it—he had, after all, slept in worse in Afghanistan.

Then, three days after they arrived and had just begun to settle down, Sam walked into the living room from the room he shared with Scott and Clint to find Stark, Vision, and Natasha sitting in their room. Clint and Wanda, already awake, were sitting with them. There was a thickness to the atmosphere, a heavy tension that betrayed the faux calmness. Vision and Wanda sat next to each other away from the group on the chairs and couch. Scott stood at Sam’s shoulder, but remained quiet. For that, Sam was thankful.

“Stark,” Sam said warily. “What a surprise.”

“Yeah, well,” Stark said, not looking at Sam. He was busy doing something with his see-through device. “Been busy, y’know, cleaning up our messes.”

There was a lot Sam dearly wanted to say to that, but he bit it back and asked the question he needed to know. “How’s Rhodes?”

Stark’s fingers paused before swiftly resuming their typing. “Paralyzed,” he said shortly. “I’m working on it.”

“Sam,” Natasha said, a hint of warmth in her voice.

“Hey Nat,” Sam said easily, taking his chair. “How’re you?”

“On the run,” she answered, her voice soft. “As are you.”

“Hey, I was just gonna follow Cap,” Sam said. “I mean, I didn’t expect it to lead to this, but I still think he’s right.”

“I’m not here to argue,” Stark interrupted. “It’s pretty clear there will be no agreement reached, okay? I get it. I think you’re wrong, you think I’m wrong. You guys are now fugitives, I’m not. Moving on. I have a proposal.”

“And what makes you think we want to hear it?” Clint asked, anger visible in the tense lines of his shoulders.

“Because it’s a way to get what we all want,” Stark said. “Look, I get Cap’s point, I do. Waiting for every ‘i’ to be dotted and ‘t’ to be crossed is tedious and could cost lives. But so could going unchecked. Now, since some of the Avengers are _not_ fugitives and some are, why don’t we utilize both. A situation goes south; you guys step in while the rest come in with UN approval.”

“I can see a whole lotta repercussions for that,” Sam observed.

“It’s a work in progress,” Tony said as he stood up and began walking around.

Wanda and Vision’s eyes followed the rest around, as though they were watching an interesting ping-pong match. Wanda looked terrible—her eyes were still sunken, her hair was still a mess. She was quiet and withdrawn, and Vision occasionally made a comment to her, too low for the rest to hear. She would murmur something back, not looking reassured in the slightest.

“Look, Stark,” Clint said. “I was retired, and I came back because you all let some jackass pull your strings.”

“Didn’t see you trying to hug it out,” Stark shot back. “You were busy fighting us!”

“Right, because the situation was completely salvageable by the time I got there,” Clint said, an eyebrow raised. “Look, I get you don’t like Bucky—”

“Did Cap tell you why? Or did he keep that a secret from you guys too?” Stark asked.

Sam and Natasha shared an uncomfortable glance. The rest looked confused.

Stark glanced around, gaze lingering on Sam and Nat for a brief moment before moving on. Stark could read people well enough to know their guilt.

“He killed my parents,” Stark said bluntly. “‘Sargent Barnes,’ my dad said right before Cap’s best _pal_ smashed his face in. He strangled my mother—” Stark took a single, deep breath, and his voice went from intense to light and unconcerned. “So that’s the guy you guys fought beside.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Natasha said.

“Oh, so you’re taking his side now?” Stark rounded on her. “Really?”

“I’ve read his files, Tony, or the ones I could get my hands on. They aren’t complete, but what I’ve read . . .”

“None of us know what it was like,” Sam interrupted. “Look, Nat’s the only one who comes close, but even with all the shit we’ve gone through, none of us had to deal with seventy years of it.”

“My dad recognized him!” Stark shouted.

“But Barnes didn’t!” Sam snapped. “And it isn’t his fucking fault, alright? It wasn’t his fucking fault, and even if he has snapped and tried to kill us—don’t look at me, Stark, he’s tried to kill me like three times already—it isn’t his fault, in the end. This was done _to_ him.”

“Look, Tony, I know you love your parents, but this wasn’t Bucky’s—” began Clint, but was cut off when Vision let out a low groan.

“What is it?” Wanda whispered. The rest fell silent. Vision sat against the wall next to her, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. His arm blocked Sam’s view of his face, but it was clear whatever the android was feeling (or whatever it was that he experienced) it wasn’t pleasant.

“Vision?” Natasha asked.

“I . . . do not know what is happening.” The android’s usually calm voice was tight, and Sam half-stood, unsure what to do but willing to be ready if he was needed. The red energy of Wanda’s power danced around Vision’s body and she seemed to be concentrating fiercely.

“There is something,” she said. “Some power . . . I do not know what it is.”

“What are you talking about?” Scott asked. Scott thrust himself upright from where he had been leaning against the wall and took a step forward, placing himself next to Sam.

“It is the gem,” Wanda muttered, but before they could ask, yellow light burst from between Vision’s fingers, lighting up every part of the room. Sam raised his hand, trying to shield his eyes—he couldn’t _see_ . . .

The next thing Sam knew, he was falling through the air, white all around him, the whistle and howl of the wind in his ears.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam learns quite a bit about Barnes . . . and about Steve Rogers, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic Depictions of Torture and Other Unsavory Stuff so if you're squeamish, don't read, I guess. More in-depth warnings in end notes.
> 
> Disclaimer: Still not mine.

The wind whistled so loudly that it deafened Sam slightly, and he tumbled end-over-end. Dark spots laced the white that surrounded him, and blindly he reached for it, desperate to save himself because he didn’t have his _wings_ and he didn’t want to die...

Then, all of a sudden, he hit the ground.

All the breath left his body. His left arm was on fire, and it felt like it had been pinned between something. His spine felt broken, his ribs were shattered, his lung punctured.

He was going to die.

“Sam,” someone said, far away. “Sam, it isn’t real. Open your eyes.”

The pain was great, and Sam only let out a low whine.

“Sam Wilson!” someone snapped. A hand pressed carefully into his shoulder—not to hurt, but to anchor. He struggled to lift his lids and found it easier than he had imagined. Natasha’s face swam into view, and as it resolved, he found the pain faded.

“What?” he managed, voice hoarse from shock and pain.

“Look,” she said quietly, her eyes skittering off to the side.

Sam managed to turn his head and found that he had landed near a blue coat. The snow around the coat was stained red with blood. He wondered if it was his blood or the other person’s.

He wondered who in their group had been wearing a blue coat.

Natasha disappeared from his sight. Sam heard her muttering, heard Clint respond, and Sam waited as the pain died down. His lung didn’t feel punctured—he took a deep breath, and both worked properly without aching. His spine was beginning to feel fine and his ribs seemed whole. His left arm throbbed, but he ignored the pain with not much effort.

“What. The. Hell,” Sam said. This time his voice was sure and steady.

He took a breath and sat up, spine definitely not broken, before glancing around.

He was in some sort of ravine, where a few trees sat, covered in snow. Two mountains rose up on either side of him, and dark rocks littered the ground around him.

“Okay, so where are we?” Stark demanded. Sam looked over to see the others—Clint, Scott, Wanda, Natasha, and Stark. Wanda and Scott were still on the ground, with Natasha and Clint speaking softly to them or helping them up. Stark was already standing, looking around as if the ravine had personally offended him.

“I would guess the Alps,” Clint said.

“Impossible,” Stark said immediately. “Not unless one of you guys has a teleporter.”

Sam noticed the billionaire was glaring at Scott, who didn’t seem to notice.

“We need to get out of here,” Natasha said. “Before the weather sets in.”

“Who’s the guy?” Scott called from a few yards away. He had staggered to his feet, but made no move to approach the figure on the ground. No one else made a move, either, too focused on their surprise at the addition to their group.

Natasha bit her lip, her eyes troubled. Sam, worried now, edged closer to the blue-coat since he was closest.

The blue coat did, in fact, have a body in it. The body had a face. Sam’s heart nearly stopped at the sight of James Barnes, hair cut short and face screwed up in pain. Bruises littered his cleft chin and long, angry red scrapes dug into his face, his hands, and his neck. His left arm was pinned between two boulders, wedged down deep from the velocity of his fall.

And it was a fall, Sam realized. There was no other way for Barnes' arm to get stuck in that position... Sam remembered the white, the howl of the wind, and realized that he, too, somehow fell with Barnes. It Sam had his wings and flew up, he'd bet he would find a set of train tracks/

But that... That was impossible. Sam had to be wrong. It was a trick, a Hydra trick...

“Who is it?” Wanda asked as she stood up, blinking snowflakes off her lashes.

“It’s the Winter Soldier,” Sam managed through his shock and incomprehension.

“As in Barnes?” Clint asked. “How is that even ...?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said quietly.

Before Sam knew what was happening, he was thrust aside as Stark barreled into him, murderous rage on his face. Several people shouted as Stark lashed out—Sam saw Natasha and Clint race over—but Stark’s hand passed harmlessly through Barnes’ body. Barnes merely groaned as he tugged at his arm again.

Stark was so shocked he let Natasha wrestle him away, stumbling back to his feet.

“What the hell is going on?” Clint asked, for once allowing his uncertainty and wariness to show on his face.

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted, crawling back over to Bucky and peering down at the younger man’s face. Slowly he took in everything about Barnes, and he felt his body tense. “But I’ll tell you what—Barnes looks thirty-something, right? This one’s younger.”

 _Impossible, this is impossible. It's_ impossible...

But it was true, even as his teammates gasped in shock or demanded answers, crowding around Sam to get a better look. The Barnes wore the blue coat that was displayed in the Smithsonian and was in every history book on World War II. His hair was cut short, his face young. There was no baby fat and Sam could see the harness about it that told him Barnes had seen fighting recently. He looked starved. The Barnes Sam had last seen had been eating real food, not the vitamin shakes Hydra forced down his throat.

“Hey,” Sam said. He didn’t try to touch Barnes—he didn’t want to watch as his fingers went through the other man’s body.

Instead, Natasha crouch beside him and carefully tried to grasp his wrist. Her fingers went through as if she was a ghost.

“That is just freaky,” Scott muttered.

Barnes let out a whimper. Sam didn’t know if he heard them or not.

“Hey, Barnes, man,” Sam said, glancing at Natasha uncertainly. She nodded, and Sam could see how nervous, how confused she was. Damn, he was getting good at reading superheroes. Assassins. Whichever.

Barnes didn’t answer—he seemed to be in too much pain for that. Instead, Barnes tugged his left arm and let out a harsh scream at the pain, which echoed itself in Sam’s arm. If he was feeling a watered-down version of Barnes’ pain—and he had to have been, Sam's had injuries less than a pinned arm and felt more pain from it—then he wondered how the soldier was functioning.

“Did anyone else feel that? Or was that just me?” Stark asked as he winced.

“It wasn’t just you,” Wanda said, rubbing her left arm. “We are … we are inside his mind, I think.”

What even was his life.

“How do you—never mind, I don’t wanna know,” Scott said just as Stark exclaimed, “We're where?”

“We are in his mind,” Wanda said. “I—I feel it, I suppose.”

“How did we get here?” Sam asked, looking up from Barnes’ pained face.

“The gem, I would guess,” Clint said. “We don’t know its powers.”

“Vision cannot control it as much as he would like,” Wanda supplied. “We do not know what all it can do, after all.”

“Okay,” Natasha said slowly, looking down at Barnes. “Is there any way we can block his pain? I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t want to feel anymore of Hydra’s … persuasion methods.”

Sam didn’t know the Winter Soldier very well, just as he did not know Barnes. However, he had read the few files found on the Winter Soldier, knew some of the things that had happened to him, and shuddered.

Faintly, he could feel Barnes’ pain. Each inhale that pushed itself in past Barnes’ lips felt as if a molten band squeezed his chest while each exhale felt like thorns scratching the insides of his chest. Sam could barely think straight, trying to figure out what was happening, why it was happening.

A few flakes of snow began to drift down, and Sam’s ears were freezing—his nose and lips were going numb, too, but he resisted the urge to rub life back into them.

Instead, he knelt down next to Barnes and tried to gauge what had happened.

They had all fallen—Sam remembered the wind, the cold, the dark patches that must have been the rock face of the mountains around them. If Sam remembered correctly, this was when Hydra got Barnes. Sometime soon, Hydra would be here. Sam didn't know if he and the others were visible or not, what being in Barnes' mind entailed, but he didn't want to find out.

The only issue was Barnes himself.

“We gotta get outta here,” he said. “With Barnes, if we can manage. If we’ve really, I don’t know, gone back in time, then Hydra is coming.”

“We didn’t go back in time,” Wanda corrected. “We aren’t really here. This is a memory.”

Sam looked around, though everything felt stable, real. What did being in a memory mean? Were they really there, or watching it like a movie? Could the people in the memory see them? Touch them? Hurt them?

Sam almost would have preferred time travel. At least that had rules, guidelines. Sam was feeling out of his depth, here.

“How do we get out?” Natasha demanded.

“I don’t know,” Wanda said. Her fingers curled with red light, and she tried to touch Barnes. Even with her powers, it simply passed through his body.

“Great,” Stark said. “So our number one hitter can’t hit here. That’s just … great.”

“I’m sorry,” Wanda said.

“Don’t,” Sam replied. He stood up. “Look, we just gotta get information as we go. We’ll figure it out.”

“Are we going to see how the Winter Soldier was created?” Clint asked. “Because I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t actually want to see that.”

“I have no idea,” Wanda admitted. “I have never been in someone’s mind. Touched them, yes. But _in_ one? I don’t know what to do.”

Sam became aware that Barnes’ fingers, which were trembling hard, were fumbling at his belt. It took him a good minute to grasp whatever it was he was looking for.

“Hey, Barnes,” Sam tried again.

“Goin’ crazy,” Barnes slurred.

Sam started. It was the first sign they had that Barnes could, in fact, hear them, and Sam slipped into his therapist voice.

“No, Barnes, you’re not. Your arm is trapped. What’re you planning?”

Barnes pulled his hand back. There was a knife clenched in his fist. “Gotta get outta here,” he said bleakly, and brought the knife up to his left arm, just above the elbow, which was trapped between the rocks. The first rip in the fabric showed pale, dirty flesh.

Sam’s eyes immediately zeroed in on the strip of flesh, proof that it was, in fact, Bucky Barnes, the Howling Commando, and not the Winter Soldier. Proof that Barnes once had two arms.

Then it hit him—what Barnes’ plan was.

There was an intake of breath behind him, but Sam didn’t look around. “Hey, no man, let’s not be hasty—”

“I fell off’a train two ‘undred feet up,” Barnes said as he awkwardly cut away more of the cuff of his jacket. “High speed. No one’ll find me. No one'll even look. Gotta get outta here, or I’ll die.”

Before Sam could try to dissuade him, Barnes began cutting his arm off.

Sam couldn’t hold back the scream, and could hear the others echo it. Sam had never had one of his limbs chopped off, had never cut off his _own_ limb before, and Sam couldn’t imagine a worse physical sensation. It was worse than being hit by Barnes’ metal arm, worse than being shot down.

Barnes cried out in response to the pain, so not only did their arms scream out, their breaths hurt on each draw in and push out.

“We need to figure out how to block his pain,” Sam heard Clint say weakly behind him.

Sam watched with the others, helpless to their shared pain and their intangibility, as Barnes kept going. Barnes shuddered, sobbed, and small wounded noises ripped themselves from his mouth every so often. He had to blink often, the tears in his eyes threatening to freeze his eyeballs.

Sam could feel the tug and give of the knife through the meat of his arm, as muscle unraveled and blood splattered outward. He could see it happening before him—he was unable to take his eyes off of Barnes. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth the knife moved. Each slice sent a new shiver of pain through Sam, each mis-cut, from Barnes' trembling hand, sent a wave of brittle agony up his bicep. Sam could feel tears track down his face and freezing there, crackling with each twitch of his facial features.

The cut was not clean—Barnes kept going, much to Sam’s astonishment, even though the knife often slipped and cut flesh he hadn’t meant to harm.

“Holy fucking shit,” Scott swore, grunting as Barnes made another deep cut, his hand shaking so badly Sam was afraid he would drop the knife.

“Try to picture yourself not in pain,” Wanda said, voice cracking slightly.

It was hard to follow her instructions when Sam was too caught up in his horror that Barnes hadn’t just lost his arm—he had cut it off himself so that he could live.

It hit him, once more, the sheer _torture_ Hydra had done to Barnes … they had turned everything good about the man into a monster. They had polluted every sacrifice, ruined every happy moment until all that was left was a volatile, self-loathing creature learning to be human once more.

Sam took a deep breath and forced those thoughts out of his head. Instead he focused on his heartbeat, thundering with adrenaline in his chest. He could hear and feel the echo of it in his pulse points. Sweat trickled down his forehead despite the cold and it itched something fierce. Sam reached up with his left hand to scrape it away, memorizing each movement he made.

It seemed to work. Barnes' pain faded and faded until it was a whisper, a hint of pain.

Sam let out a breath and kept focusing on his body, feeling guilty that he could not witness Barnes' sacrifice.

After what seems an age, Barnes hit bone.

Sam only became aware of this when Barnes wheezed out a, “Fuck.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Scott said, and Sam could hear the tremble in the other man’s voice.

“Gotta get back to Steve,” Barnes mumbled through his pain. The snow around his fallen body was saturated with red.

Barnes didn’t take a break, just kept sawing and hacking at his bone. It was, once again, not a clean cut and Sam nearly blacked out more often than not in time with Barnes. After the first time his vision swam and bile rose in his throat, Sam had to back away and suck in icy breaths in short, frantic gasps. He wasn't sure how well the others were doing—Sam honestly could not expend the mental energy to check up on them at the moment. He had no idea how Barnes kept going—The wet crunch of bone snapping and the _snick_ of steel through meat echoed in the quiet air told him Barnes had not stopped, was not planning to stop.

The only breaks Barnes took was when he needed fresh air. He would sagged back against the rock and tale a series of shallow breaths when he did so.

“You’re almost there,” Sam encouraged when this happened. It was better for Barnes to get done—he had already done most of the damage. His muscles, flesh, and bone were open to the world.

“I wanna go home,” Barnes said after the third break. The knife trembled uncontrollably in his grip. “I don’ wanna fight no more.”

Though he didn’t look much younger, there was something strangely vulnerable about Barnes in that moment, and even though Sam didn’t like Barnes very much—Barnes _had_ tried to kill him multiple times, recently, too—he couldn’t help but try to comfort the other man.

“Listen to me,” he said, walking as close as he could without vomiting and crouching down. “You ain’t done yet, and if you don’t get done, you will never go home.”

“You ever been to Brooklyn?” Barnes mumbled as he raised the knife back up and chopped at his remaining flesh. The pain had dulled—they were all too used to it, now, though Barnes still winced and shuddered.

“Once or twice,” Sam murmured, thinking of the times Steve had dragged him there, looking for Barnes.

“I miss it,” Barnes admitted, looking at the remains of his arm, the knife he was lopping into it. “I miss my apartment. I miss Steve.”

“You’ll see him again,” Sam promised. He hated how much of the truth was in his comforting lie.

“I miss Steve how ‘e was,” Barnes said. He looked at Sam, and his eyes were too bright. “Use to be just me an’ his ma knew how good he was. ‘Cause Steve’s good.” Talking about Steve, Sam saw a flicker of life in Barnes' despairing gaze. It was the only hint Sam had ever seen of the Barnes Steve remembered, and it wasn't even real, if Wanda was telling the truth.

Sam banished the weirdness of his situation and slipped back into comforting the wounded soldier. “I know he is.”

Barnes laughed bitterly, though it was little more than of a rasp of air. “People only see Cap’n ‘merca,” he said. His knife went through the last of his flesh, and his hand thudded to the ground. Barnes likely didn’t have the energy to bring it back up.

“I miss my Steve,” Barnes breathed before his gaze landed on the stump that had been his arm and he began to sob. Sam looks over his shoulder at the others, unsure of what to do. There was a soft, undefinable look on Natasha’s face while Clint looked sick and horribly sad. Scott was actually sick—he had thrown up—he now leaned against a rock, sweating despite the chill. Wanda had a hand over her mouth, tears in her eyes, and Stark—

Sam doesn’t know what emotions must be going through Stark’s head, but they seem to be giving him a hard time.

With a ragged gasp, Barnes began to drag himself away from the rocks and what remained of his arm. He did not have a pack of supplies or a weapon beyond his little bloody knife. All he had was his blue jacket, and even Sam knew he was going to bleed out long before help arrived—and help wouldn’t come.

Not the help he deserved.

Sam knew how Barnes’ story ended.

“You need to stop the blood,” Sam said.

“Don’ have bandages,” Barnes said. “Need my coat.”

“You need to not bleed out more!” Sam protested.

“Barnes,” Natasha said harshly. “Wrap up your damn wound.”

“How many ‘a you are there?” Barnes asked as he leaned over into the snow and awkwardly pulled out his blood-soaked knife. He ripped the bottom of his coat until he had a strip of cloth long enough to wind around his wound, and then tucked the knife away.

“Happy?” Barnes asked, tying the cloth just above the wound, using his teeth and his numb, trembling fingers.

“Very,” Natasha said. “Get moving.”

Barnes kept moving, and the others followed. They walked while he dragged himself across the snow, hands and fingers turning blue from the cold.

No animals spoke, hidden by snow banks. It was as if they were truly alone in the world. Sam couldn’t hear any of Barnes’ friends calling for him—they had to be many miles away from him. Sam wondered if the Commandos even knew at this point. It had to have been an hour tops since Barnes fell. From what Steve told him, only Barnes and Gabe Jones had been on the train with them, and they had had to drive the train back to the drop point where the other Commandos were, since the only destination the train was heading towards was Hydra. Sam didn't know how long that would take, but right now only two people in the world might know Barnes had "died."

"How do you think Vision is? He isn't here," Clint asked.

Sam glanced back as Wanda, face tight, replied. "I don't know. We must hope he will be okay. I cannot sense him.

"I want to know how Barnes can talk to us," Natasha said. "It's a memory. Shouldn't it be like a movie?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Stark said. "Thoughts, oh mind-scrambler?"

Wanda bit her lip. "I've never seen or heard of anything like this," she admitted. "But I would guess... I would guess it is more like his conscious is responding. People remember things differently, you know, even if an event didn't happen the way they remember. We might be in a sort of... second memory, one that overlays the first. The real memory happened slightly differently—Barnes did not talk to us, in the real world, in the past. But here, in his mind, we are here and real and it is him responding to us."

"This is making my fucking head hurt," Clint said. "What the fuck."

Sam agreed, but small talk quickly died in the never-ending white, the trail of red, and the struggling figure in blue.

Barnes didn’t mutter to himself as he pulled himself along. Barnes' legs seemed to be fine, but Sam suspected Barnes had lost too much blood to even _want_ to stand up. The little Sam could see of his face showed him the younger man was thinking rapidly.

“How does one survive in the snow?” Wanda asked, her gaze locked on the crawling figure in the midst of them.

“Snow is warm, actually,” Clint said. “Bury yourself in it, you basically make a blanket of water.”

“You can melt snow in your mouth,” Scott offered. They looked at him and he blinked. “What? I had snow where I grew up. It meant we didn’t have to go inside to get a cup of water.”

“Please shut up,” Barnes said from the snow. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, and Sam wondered if Barnes was trying to crawl all the way back to Brooklyn.

It wouldn’t surprise him.

“Incoming,” Natasha murmured. Sam glanced in the direction she was looking in and saw, heart dropping, a band of serious-looking men with fur hats and thick coats making their way towards the man with a trail of blood and a blue coat against the white snow.

Barnes couldn’t have made a better target if he tried.

“Shit,” Scott muttered. “Barnes, hide.”

“I’ve’a trial, idiot,” Barnes garbled. He had lost too much blood, now, and his eyes were drooping.

“No, don’t you dare pass out,” Sam demanded. “Move!”

Barnes, to his credit, tried. The men, on the other hand, were in possession of both hands and considerably more blood. They overtook Barnes quickly and while Barnes lashed out at the first one who approached him with his knife, it wasn’t hard, in the end, to subdue him.

The last thing Sam saw was the men as they dragged Barnes away by his remaining arm was Barnes’ face, bloodstained and terrified.

“James Buchannan Barnes,” Natasha said as she stood next to him, “died afraid.”

Then everything went black.

==========================================================================================

The first thing Sam heard was the sound of traffic.

When he blinked, he found himself on a sidewalk.

There were buildings all around him, and Sam found the others at his side, each looking equally taken aback. The air was smoky, and Sam could suddenly understand why Steve enjoyed just breathing the air of New York City. The New York from their time was practically the countryside compared to this.

“What.” Stark sounded bewildered. Mister Know-It-All didn’t actually know it all, Sam thought to himself.

“We’re in Brooklyn,” Sam said.

Stark shot him a glare. “I know that. It’s just—we were in the Alps.”

“And now we’re not,” Sam said. “None of us have been in someone else’s mind before, Stark. No one knows what’s going on.”

“Roll with it,” Natasha advised.

“Fine,” Stark muttered. “I don’t even want to be here, damn it.”

“I don’t either,” Sam said. He looked around at the soot-stained buildings, the people with ragged clothes and lined faces, the clouds of smoke. “It feels very wrong, being in someone’s mind.”

“A violation,” Clint said. His face was bleak.

Before they could say anything else, Scott said, “Guys, here he comes.”

They turn to see Barnes walking down the street towards them. There was a girl at his side, her red hair done up elegantly, her smile bright. This Barnes was _young_. Where the other one had at least been hardened with war, this one was carefree in a way Sam couldn’t remember either Steve or Barnes ever being, not even in the black-and-white photos.

He was early twenties, at least. He wore suspenders, neat trousers, and a long-sleeved t-shirt. His smile was broad and cocky, and Sam could suddenly understand why Steve was so desperate to get his best friend back.

“Hey, Bucky, this is my stop,” the girl laughed, eyes sparkling. Barnes kissed her hand gently, before saying goodbye in a voice that could be any other young adults, a drawling cockiness made soft with a cheeky smile. He watched her climb the steps to an apartment complex and close the door behind her before sauntering down the sidewalk once the door had closed, looking pleased with himself.

He held himself in a way Sam had only really seen in the pre-Battle of New York Tony Stark videos—the confidence, the arrogance, of youth. He filled up space, winking at women of all ages and nodding politely to the men. He seemed to be well liked—there were hellos called out and older folks telling him to “get lost” with a smile in their voices.

Barnes turned down a street before freezing in front of an alley.

“What?” Sam heard Scott ask before Barnes bolted into the dark as quickly as he could. They hurried after him and came to a stop at the end where Barnes was busy kicking ass. There were two others, and they seemed about Barnes’ age.

“Fuck yeah,” Scott said, some of the hero worship from earlier creeping back into his voice. Natasha hovered at Sam’s shoulder, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. Sam shrugged.

“Get lost, Ricky,” Barnes growled. He did not sound as threatening as his older self would.

The boys looked up, wary, and the leader looked as if he was trying to decide if it was worth it. When Barnes picked up a wooden board and held it like a baseball bat, they clearly made up their minds.

“Your guard dog won’t be there forever, Rogers!” one of the boys shouted before they ran away.

Sam stiffened at the mention of Steve, and as he watched Barnes headed to the garbage bins to one side of the alley, where a small figure was struggling to sit up.

“What’d they do this time?” Barnes asked quietly as he helped Steve up.

Steve Rogers had been born _small_. Sam knew that, of course. It was taught in the history books, and he knew that Steve had grown almost a foot thanks to the serum.

However, that hadn’t prepared him for the sheer _smallness_ of the man who would become one of his best friends, over seventy years in the future. His arms were so thin Sam could wrap his fingers all the way around with room to spare, his chest was frail, and his ribs were visible even under the faded and patchy shirt he wore. The only thing about him that looked remotely familiar was the intensity in his eyes, the fire that Sam himself had watch dull over the years as Steve had taken blow after blow with no rest. His face, too, hinted at the strong, square jaw line he would gain.

“There was a new Irish family that moved onto the block,” Steve said, his voice familiar, even if it was lighter as he fought for breath. The Brooklyn drawl was something the senator had told him to lose—Steve had told him that. The choir girls had helped him. Sam still liked making fun of him over that story. However, hearing the Brooklyn accent in Steve’s voice was … odd. And thick, man, Sam hadn't known how thick Steve's accent had been, but he could practically _hear_ Brooklyn oozing out of it. Steve continued, unaware in the safety of the memory of the people watching him, “Ricky ‘n’ Mark was pickin’ on ‘em.”

“Steve, fuck, _you’re Irish_ ,” Barnes hissed. He glanced at the mouth of the alley. “They find out, you’re worse off.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Steve snarled, and Sam was unprepared for the sheer anger in Steve’s gaze. “I ain’t ‘bout to let it just happen, Buck!”

“I know!” Barnes said. “But you could at least try to live for a little while longer!”

“What’s the point?” Steve asked. “Doctor’s say ‘m gonna die by the time ’m thirty.”

Sam hadn’t known that. Judging by Natasha’s soft breath, she hadn’t heard that, either.

There was a lot Steve had never bothered to share with them, even though they were his friends.

“I know. Father Jones taught me the last Rites,” Barnes said, chuckling humorlessly. “Didn’t have the heart to tell ‘em I was Jewish.”

“I thought he knew,” Steve said, striding off down the alley. Barnes rolled his eyes before following.

“That ain’t the point,” Barnes said. “Point is, I got faith in science. They’ll cure you, one day.” He bumped his upper arm gently into Steve’s shoulder.

 _Buddy, you got no idea_ , Sam thought.

“I dunno, Buck,” Steve said. “I dunno if I’d be me without it.”

“Well, you’d at least be healthy enough to fight back,” Barnes replied.

Steve stopped and looked at Barnes, who gazed back, his expression calm.

“I dunno what I’d do without you, Buck,” Steve said, in that sincere way that made it impossible not to trust him.

“You probably wouldn’t have made it to fifteen, let alone twenty-one,” Barnes said, the strains of amusement undermined by a deeper worry.

Steve’s eyes skittered away. “I miss her.”

“I know,” Barnes said.

“'Least she’s with Dad.”

Barnes looked pained. “Steve, she loved you.”

“I know,” Steve muttered, kicking at some garbage. He looked up at Barnes. “I just miss her.”

Barnes nodded once, then jerked his head out to the street, only a few feet away. “Wanna head out, get back home and not do anything for a while?”

“Don’t you have a date?” Steve asked, and Sam could have sworn he heard something like jealousy in his friend’s voice.

“Nope,” Barnes drawled. A grin grew on his face. “But the Dodgers are playin’ tonight.”

Steve’s face lit up, and with renewed energy the two of them dashed away.

“I was not expecting running!” Stark shouted as they took off after the two young men. Thankfully, they had to go slow because of Steve’s asthma, and so it was easy to catch up with them. Sam was suddenly much more grateful for the insane races Steve subjected him to.

Barnes and Steve turned down a street where a woman in an elegant dress leaned against the walls. She seemed to be waiting for someone.

Barnes and Steve exchanged a glance and slowed to a walk.

“What’s a lovely dame like you doin’ out here in a place like this?” Barnes drawled, eyes dancing with mirth.

The woman turned, and Sam realized, suddenly, that it was a man. He, not she, wore makeup—blush and lipstick, crumbling eyeliner.

“Well, if it isn’t Bucky Barnes,” he said, his voice soft and high. He looked down slightly. “And little Steve Rogers.”

Steve gave him a friendly smile. “Hey, Paris.”

Barnes winked at Paris, a bright grin on his face.

“I was on my way home,” Paris said. “Gotta get dressed back up in slacks for Jerry.” He grimaced.

“Wish your brother wasn’t such a jerk,” Steve said. “Y’know, you can always come live in this neighborhood.”

Paris smiled. “Well, then I wouldn’t be able to find more research on the Battle of Bull Run, right?”

Steve and Barnes stiffened. Paris nodded, suddenly serious, and handed over a small folded paper.

“You boys take care,” he said before standing up straight and moving past Steve and Barnes, back to the street where the two had come from.

“Fuck,” Barnes said.

“That’s the third time this month,” Steve muttered. “Sooner or later they’re gonna catch ‘em.”

“Well, we’ll make sure that don’t happen,” Barnes said, knocking Steve’s shoulder again. “C’mon.”

They took off once more down the alleyway, leading a trail of confused heroes behind them. Steve and Barnes walked down a couple of more streets until they came to one which looked no different from the rest. It had small stalls, weary people, and playing children. However, they both slowed down into a stroll and straightened their backs—or, as much as Steve could.

“So,” Barnes said. “Wanna hear ‘bout what I learned today?”

“Sure thing, Buck,” Steve said.

“Civil War,” Barnes said. “In July 1861, there was a battle.”

“Wow,” Steve said, an edge of mockery leaking out of his tone. “There were battles in the Civil War? I would’ve never guessed.”

Barnes rolled his eyes so hard Sam expected him to pull a muscle. Sam snickered at Steve's sarcasm, and heard the others laugh as well.

“Punk,” Barnes muttered under his breath. “Yeah,” he said louder. “Some guy named McDowell marched down from Washington to fight against the Confederates. Lasted for a couple’a days.”

“What was the battle called?” Steve asked, clearly playing along to something.

“The Battle ‘a Bull Run,” Barnes answered. Natasha elbowed Sam hard enough to warrant a jump, and he followed her gaze to see a few people listening in on Steve and Barnes’ conversation before ducking into shadows and whispering to each other.

“Bull Run?” Steve asked, eyebrow raised.

“What are they in, a cult?” Stark asked. “That so did not make it into the history books.”

Barnes shrugged. “Yeah. Don’t ask me why they named it that. ‘S a stupid name.”

They reached a building where a man lounged against the wall.

“You boys talking ‘bout war?” he asked.

“Bull Run,” Barnes confirmed. The man sighed, exasperated.

“Again?” he asked. “Third time this month.”

“That’s what I said,” Steve muttered. Bucky snorted and thrust the crumpled paper at the man, who took it without looking at it.

The man pushed himself away from the wall. “Thanks for the head’s up.”

“Anytime, Frank,” Steve said. “Though you might wanna move your fairy bar—the police are onto you, if the raids are getting this frequent.”

Frank dismissed Steve with a wave. “Thank Paris for me.”

Steve rolled his eyes at Bucky, who smirked as they let themselves into the building Frank had been leaning against.

“Barnes and Steve helped warn gay bars about cops?” Clint asked, trying hard not to laugh.

“Dude, there is so much Steve hasn’t told us,” Sam said and made to follow the two into the building, but then everything around them once more grew dark.

==========================================================================================

The laboratory they landed in looked like it was pulled straight out of a horror movie. The dark concrete walls displayed odd, disconcerting stains. The yellow light bulbs dimmed occasionally at odd moments. Weird medical equipment lay around on shelves or on metal carts. Nothing looked sterile.

That was when Sam became aware of the pain in his arm, his chest, his legs, and his head. Each part pulsed with pain, the dull kind that becomes a burden and a comfort after a while. Sam winced.

“Fuck,” he heard Scott mutter.

“Go to fucking hell,” Barnes spat behind them.

Sam turned and saw Barnes splayed flat against a table, tilted at an eighty-degree angle with each limb, even the stump, strapped down. Barnes looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, and the shadows under his eyes were deep and bruise-like. His arm had been trimmed and bandaged, but Sam couldn’t see a metal arm lying around waiting to be attached. Sam could smell him—piss and shit and body odor. Barnes had been here a while, though none of his wounds looked infected. He was trembling slightly, which Sam could hear faintly—some of the metal restraints resonated with the movement.

“What’s wrong with him?” Wanda asked.

“He hasn’t slept for at least four days,” Natasha murmured, her eyes darting across his body, cataloguing each injury. “They’re trying to break him.”

“Hey, Barnes,” Sam said, edging closer. Barnes wasn’t wearing a shirt, and his war-earned muscles had lost all definition. He was thin—Sam could see each rib. His cheeks were hollowed and nearing the stage Sam could call skeletal. His hair had grown out so that it curled past his ears. Sam judged, by its length, that it had been three months since Barnes had been taken.

Barnes closed his eyes, but electricity ran from the clasps keeping him pinned, and he jolted awake again with a strangled gasp. Sam winced as his veins sung with the crackle, echoed from Barnes’ body.

“How do we stop feeling his pain?” Clint muttered.

“Remember that you aren’t Barnes,” Natasha said curtly. She did not look affected by the pain. “Just remind yourself of that.”

Sam would try, this time around. He did not want to be tortured by Hydra any more than he actually wanted to cut his _own_ arm off.

“I want to go home,” Barnes said. Sam didn’t know who he was talking to, if Barnes—Bucky—could even hear him. A door opened behind them, and a voice sounded out before Sam could turn to see who it was.

“And you vill, Mister Barnes,” said a man. He was tall and thin with square spectacles and the beginnings of a beard. He was dressed entirely in black, though on his shoulder a patch with the Hydra insignia had been sewn on. “You haf been holding out for many months now. Vill you not listen to us?”

Bucky glared. “Go to hell,” he repeated.

The man tisked. “That is not the answer ve vere hoping for.”

“‘S the only answer you’re gonna get,” Bucky sneered.

The man smiled, a terrifying curl of his thin, bloodless lips. “So you think.”

The man walked in a wide circle as he spoke, and came to rest just behind Bucky. Sam could see the way Bucky tensed, the terror rolling off him in waves. Bucky couldn’t see the man anymore, and even without the sleep deprivation, that was never a good thing.

The man leaned in closer, a truly horrifying smile plastered on his face. “You haf nothing to fight for, soldier.”

Bucky grinned right back, and it was a manic, crazed smile, yellowed teeth bared. “’S what you think.”

“It is vhat I know,” the man corrected. “You know, do you not, that you will soon fight for Hydra?”

Bucky laughed. “That’ll never happen, chucklehead.”

“Oh?”

Bucky said nothing, but Sam could see the determination burning in his eyes. Bucky’s muscles had begun atrophying, he only had one arm, and he was weak from lack of sleep. Even under the yellow light, he looked like a zombie.

Bucky knew full well the only way he could plausibly escape was if someone came to rescue him or if death claimed him.

No one was coming, Sam thought. No one knew he was even alive.

“Are you speaking about your daring and imminent escape?” the man asked, sounding bored out of his mind. “Because no one is coming for you, Sargent. Your good Captain is dead.”

Bucky froze, and Sam heard Natasha utter a small, “Oh no,” next to him.

The man looked gleeful now. “Oh yes, I forget. You do not get the news down here. Nearly two weeks ago, Captain America crashed a plane into the Artic. He is gone, Sargent, the only man who vould look for you has given up and died. There is no one who vill come for you.”

“You’re lying,” Bucky croaked. He began to struggle weakly, tears welling up, though none fell. “You’re lying!” he bellowed.

“I am not,” the man said and showed Bucky a newspaper clipping he had folded in his pocket.

CAPTAIN AMERICA DEAD—DOWNED IN PLANE CRASH, it read. There was a picture of the Steve Sam knew, all big and strong. He looked serious, and Sam was suddenly struck by how much Captain America had changed Steve. Not just physically, but mentally—Sam had just seen the man Steve still, in some ways, saw himself as—the thin Brooklyn boy, all fire and determination. Once Captain America came into the picture … Steve looked resigned. Some of his fire had died.

Some of _Steve_ had died.

And Bucky had noticed that. _“I miss my Steve,”_ he had said to them in the snowy Alps. He remembered that bit, even as he bled out into the snow, has he believed he was hallucinating voices, as he had no hope to live. He remembered the person Steve had been, who he was buried under all the propaganda and duty. Captain America was as much a curse as it was a blessing.

It was not the most opportune time for that revelation, though Sam was glad he had it. Instead, he tore his gaze away from the paper and looked at Bucky. The sight was worse than the paper itself.

Bucky’s reaction was heartbreaking. He paled and his eyes carefully read each word, over and over, as if that could change their meaning. Sam felt sick.

“No,” Bucky said quietly, voice cracking. Sam, however, could see the horror spreading across his face, the panic in his voice. “No, _no_ , STEVE!”

He began thrashing, using the last of his strength as a few tears trickled down his cheeks. “You’re lying!” he screamed. “You made that up! Steve isn’t _dead!_ ”

“Did you really think he vould last long without you?” the man asked. “I haf heard of you two, you know. I haf heard that you looked out for him in your home and in the battlefield. The Commandos, the SSR … they are not his family, not like you. Just as he is your family, no?”

“He isn’t dead,” Bucky whispered. His lips were chapped and flaking, bleeding slightly after his outburst had split them open.

“He is,” the man promised.

Bucky continued breaking down while the man laughed at his pain. Occasionally, the man would press a button, shocking Bucky until Bucky was only a gibbering mess of tears and pain. Then, the man left, leaving Bucky all but hanging from his restraints, calling out, “I vill be back!” cheerful as you please.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Bucky repeated, seemingly unaware that the man had left. A trail of spittle bridged his lower lip and his chin. His eyes were wild.

“Hey man,” Sam said, not even sure what he was about to stay. “You gotta stay strong.”

“Steve can’t be dead,” Bucky muttered.

Sam saw Stark move closer to Bucky, his face uncertain.

“It could be a ruse,” Sam said. “Remember, they’re trying to break you.”

Bucky’s head lolled. “Steve’s stupid enough to do it,” he said. “He doesn’t … he barely knows how to fly a goddamned plane. But he’d do it, if it was the right thing to do.”

Sam could not deny this.

“They’re trying to break you,” he said again. “You can’t let them break you.”

Bucky lifted his head up, and Sam had never seen such sorrow, such desolation on another face. He didn’t think he would ever see it again. “But Steve’s dead.”

Bucky had given up. Sam knew he wasn’t the only one who had seen it. The man, whoever he was, had just taken away his reason for living.

“What, hey, no, Barnes,” Stark said. Sam looked at him in surprise and saw that Stark looked surprised at himself, too. “Look, you’ve done a whole bunch of crap, but you should get off your ass and do something.”

“Do what?” Bucky asked. “I already tried to escape. I escaped three times, made it to the edge of a nearby city once. They keep finding me. I think they put a tracker in me.”

Stark looked around, and Sam tried to draw more conversation out of Bucky. “Steve wouldn’t want you to give up,” he said.

Bucky forced a dry, humorless laugh. “’M not Steve,” he said. “Steve’s better ‘n me. Always has been. Always will be.”

“Not everyone can be the embodiment of a Saint,” Sam countered. “But that doesn’t mean you ain’t a good, strong person.”

“But ‘m not,” Bucky whispered. He looked bleak. “They’re gonna break me soon, and I don’t know how to stop it.”

Before Sam, Stark, or Natasha could come up with something—Sam had seen both of them thinking, looking around, trying to find some way out of it, Clint called, “Incoming,” just as the door opened once more.

The man from before entered, this time with three guards and a small Japanese doctor in a white coat. The doctor’s wire-rimmed glasses glinted in the light.

He looked at Bucky, and Sam could see the greed in his eyes. “Maruta wa koko desu?”

“Hai,” the man replied. He looked at Bucky. “Dr. Sato here vorked in Epidemic Prevention and Vater Purification Department of the Kwantung Army. He is here to try and persuade you.”

“The what?” Scott asked.

“Unit 731,” Clint answered, face pale. “They were a Japanese research division during World War II. They did human experiments—vivisections, biological warfare ... basically, everything outlawed by the Geneva Convention.”

“Shit,” Sam muttered as the man sat in a chair near the door, the three guards around him. Sam thought really, really hard about the fact that he wasn't Bucky, that he was Sam Wilson, and was pleased when the pain faded, however distant that thought was. When he refocused, he saw that the doctor had lowered Bucky until he was flat on his back and then beckoned one of the guards forward. The guard held a case, and the doctor placed it on one of the carts.

“We must see inside,” the doctor said in a heavy accent, smiling pleasantly. “Zola’s secret is inside.”

“What are you doing?” Bucky demanded as Dr. Sato picked up a blade.

Sam had to turn away as Dr. Sato began to cut into Bucky, to see inside—to see _inside_ of him. Bucky’s screaming was so, so loud, and Sam knew that this was only the beginning...

The scene was fading around him like a warped picture. Sam thought he saw someone enter the chamber, a dark figure—another guard? Whoever it was, it just stood there, watching the proceedings, not saying a word.

And no help came for Bucky Barnes.

Then it all went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1920s slang—bull meant police.
> 
> The Battle of Bull Run--an actual battle in the Civil War where, yes, they did in fact have battles.
> 
> “Maruta wa koko desu?” (This is the log?)
> 
> “Hai,” (Yes)
> 
> Fun Fact: Unit 731 was real. Look it up if you want. The guards and such would refer to their prisoners/experiments as 'logs' because the factory they worked in also did lumber as well as a whole bunch of other crap. History, guys.
> 
> If I got the language wrong, please tell me. I don't speak Japanese--my brother does.
> 
> WARNINGS: Bucky cuts off his arm, mentions of homophobic language, and the beginnings of a vivisection (i.e., cutting a person open like an autopsy while they're still alive.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they dive further into Bucky's mind, several things about the two super-soldiers begin to fall into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, there is a scene directly from the movie in here. I didn't copy it down in the theater went I went to see it (again) in theaters yesterday, so it's all from memory. Please let me know if I missed something.
> 
> Warnings in the end notes.

When Sam blinked, he found Steve’s face in front of him.

Well, Steve and Bucky. The two sat on a log in a forest. There was a slight wind, chilly, and it rustled the pines around them. The disturbed needles nearby told him where the two had come from—the northeast, by the looks of it. Sam couldn’t hear anything up that way, but he would guess either the Howling Commandos had set up camp or there was an army outpost. He didn’t know which country they were in—Sam was more familiar with the sandy deserts of the Middle East. He hadn’t been in European forests enough to pinpoint their location.

Both Steve and Bucky were dressed more or less as they did in the history book pictures. Steve wasn’t wearing the Captain America outfit—no matter how super he was, he had told Sam last year, sometimes it was better to blend in and get out of costume. Besides, Steve had added with a tired twinkle in his eyes, he had only had two uniforms, and they both got pretty rank after a while. Instead, were dressed in the combat gear of the war, and they were eyeing something in Steve’s hand. Bucky looked gleeful, though he seemed to be doing his best to hide it.

“What is this?” Steve asked warily. Sam noted that his Brooklyn accent was all but gone. Instead, there was a commanding lilt to it, one that Steve used when he was in full Captain America mode.

Sam could feel the sly humor radiating off Bucky. “It’s chocolate,” Bucky said. “You’ve eaten chocolate before.”

Bucky, too, had lost his accent—he must have done it so that Steve wasn’t alone. God, Bucky by this point had been captured and experimented on, and instead of returning home like Sam would have done had he just been a soldier Cap had saved (which he is not afraid to admit, not if his mental health was on the line) he instead jumped back into the war and did his best to help _Steve_ , even if that meant changing how he spoke.

Sam could see, now, why Bucky was Steve’s best friend. Steve may be the literal embodiment of Righteousness, but Bucky was by no means a bad person. He was a fantastic friend it looked like. The kind that Sam had always wanted growing up. The kind from stories.

“Yeah, when you stole it,” Steve was saying when Sam tuned back in. He eyed the dark hunk in his hand. “Is it safe?”

Bucky smiled, sharklike. “Oh yes.”

Steve cautiously took a nibble before his face scrunched up in horror and he spat the dark glob out. Bucky almost fell off the log laughing.

“You jerk!” Steve shouted, and before Bucky knew it, there was a two hundred pound super soldier trying to wrestle him to the ground. The two scuffled around, kicking up needles and small stones as they flailed about. Sam could tell Steve was holding back, doing his best to not harm his best friend. Nevertheless, they both seemed to be having fun.

“This is almost sickening adorable,” Stark said. “And Barnes was a prankster. Who knew.”

“What is it?” Clint asked, crouching down next to the “chocolate,” which had fallen from Steve’s hand onto the ground.

Before anyone could answer—or try to, Sam wasn't sure anyone knew what the dark lump really was—Steve and Bucky broke apart.

“Okay, no, but seriously,” Steve said, sitting on his heels. “What is it?”

“It really is chocolate,” Bucky said, slightly winded.

Steve shook his head. “I have, in fact, eaten chocolate before—”

“Yeah, courtesy of yours truly,” Bucky interrupted, grinning. Steve gently punched his shoulder.

“That’s not chocolate,” Steve finished, pointing vehemently at the offending candy.

“It’s really not,” Bucky agreed sagely. “It’s D-rations.”

“What?” Scott asked.

Steve’s face, on the other hand, cleared. “I’ve heard of those. Why’s it gotta taste like boiled potatoes?”

“Don’t look at me,” Bucky said. “I think they packed so much good stuff in it, all the good taste didn’t have room.”

“That explains it,” Steve said. He glanced and Bucky, who looked steadily back.

“What are they going to do?” Stark asked. “Kiss?”

They didn’t, but Sam wouldn’t have been surprised if they had, with how intensely they were looking at each other. Instead, Steve stood up and offered a hand to Bucky, who took it and used it to pull himself upright.

“Listen,” Steve said quietly as Bucky dusted off his pants. “You don’t gotta go with me, Buck. It’s war, and you’ve already been tortured.”

“Wow, serious,” Scott said. There was a muffled thwack and Scott protested under his breath.

Bucky’s face spasmed slightly with fear, where there was no one around to see it but Steve. When Sam was a kid, none of the history books or teachers had told him about Bucky’s time with Zola—they usually only said Barnes had been held hostage in Azzano, and that afterward he joined Captain America as if nothing traumatic had even happened.

Steve had been the one to tell him, in the aftermath of D.C. 

Sam had never known about it, and he had remained quiet, which Steve seemed to appreciate. Steve told him about the nightmares, the way Bucky had withdrawn into himself while at the same time throwing himself in the fighting that they had.

 _“He was strong, so strong,”_ Steve had said, eyes distant. _“I always thought he was stronger than me.”_

 _“Most people would disagree with that,”_ Sam said quietly.

Steve had sighed, and Sam had felt he had said the wrong thing when Steve had said softly, _“Even heroes need their inspiration, their reasons for fighting. Bucky was mine, and he knew it.”_

(Of course, then he added that the Azzano mission _hadn't,_ in fact, been sanctioned and so much more of Steve fell into place. That was when Sam knew he was really in trouble.)

Back in the memory, where a war was occurring, Bucky looked up at Steve, and his expression was calm, serene, almost. “I ain’t going anywhere,” he said. “Where you go, I go. ‘Til the end of the line, Steve.”

Steve nodded and stood, stretching slightly. Bucky’s eyes narrowed in on the stretch of flesh exposed, and Sam felt uncomfortable—this was a private moment, and here he was, watching it as though it was entertainment. He heard Stark snicker softly to is right. Steve seemed oblivious as he shot Bucky a smile and trooped back towards where their camp must have been. Bucky’s expression stilled without Steve around to act alright for until it looked old and tired, an expression Sam remembered seeing on Barnes’ face in the future.

The seeds of the Winter Soldier already existed. Sam felt cold.

“It’s for protection, though,” Natasha whispered in his ear. He looked down at her and saw that her eyes were fixed on Bucky, too.

Sam glanced back and saw that Bucky was looking towards the chocolate ration, his expression now sad.

Bucky had done terrible things even before HYDRA got their claws in him, but he had done it all for Steve.

It was nothing less than what Sam would have done. Good people do bad things for the people they loved, just look at Steve.

Bucky had been a good person.

Sam wondered if he could be again.

Darkness.

==========================================================================================

When they next appeared, it was once again in Brooklyn. A child Bucky Barnes walked in front of them. Sam eyed his face—he had to be eleven or twelve.

“Well, this is unexpected,” Stark said.

“He’s a kid,” Scott said in disbelief.

“Man, I wish I had a camera,” Clint muttered. “We all lack embarrassing childhood stories for these two.”

“Knowing Steve, I’m not sure we want to know what mess they got into,” Natasha said, rolling her eyes.

Just then, Bucky halted when a small kid was pushed into Bucky’s way, blood covering his face. Three other kids stood over him, and Bucky stiffened.

“Just give us th’ money, Rogers,” one of the kids sneered. Sam blinked and looked down at the kid on the ground. Sure enough, looking about Bucky’s age, a blonde-haired Steve Rogers glared up through the blood.

“What’s goin’ on here?” Bucky demanded loudly.

One of the kids glanced at Bucky and then looked away, unconcerned. “’S nothin’. This little sap won’t give us his money.”

Sam saw Steve’s fist clench protectively against his thin chest.

“They’re seriously beating him up over his lunch money?” Stark asked. “Wow, Rogers, you really hit all the stereotypes.”

“Oh, dry up,” Bucky snarled before launching himself at the other kid.

The fight was short, bloody, and brutal. Bucky was the tallest kid and clearly knew some moves. Once Steve saw what Bucky was doing, he pushed himself up on his thin arms and threw himself into the fray with renewed vigor, fist still clamped tight.

Faced against two surprisingly vicious opponents, the bullies quickly scattered.

Bucky and Steve panted as adults walked about them, unconcerned over a scuffle between children.

“Rogers, right?” Bucky asked, sticking out his hand. Sam noticed he used his left so that Steve wouldn’t have to let go of his money still clenched in his right.

Steve eyed it warily. “You know who I am?”

Bucky shrugged. “Sorta. Heard ‘bout you.”

Steve hesitated. “You heard ‘bout my family? That they’re ... they’re harps?” He peered at Bucky through his bangs. He looked very young and unsure; something Sam was unused to seeing on Steve Rogers’ face. He didn’t know what a harp was, but it seemed like something Steve got beat up over often.

“I don’t mind,” Bucky said. His hand still stuck out. He looked at Steve patiently.

Slowly, Steve reached out and shook his hand, nodded uncertainly.

“I don’t care what you look like or where your family’s from,” Bucky said, letting go of the hand. “It don’t matter. What does matter is those pills don’t do that again, okay?”

“I—thanks,” Steve said. “You’re James, right? Heard a new one moved in somewhere.”

“James Buchannan Barnes,” Bucky confirmed. “But you can call me Bucky.”

“Bucky?” Steve repeated, an incredulous smile dancing about his lips.

Bucky laughed. “I got three younger sisters and ten other guys in my neighborhood named James. It was bound to happen.”

“You got siblings?” Steve asked softly.

“Yeah,” Bucky said.

Steve looked down. “My dad died in the Great War. I just got my ma.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bucky said. “Least he died for something good, y’know?”

“I guess,” Steve said. He peeked from beneath his fringe. “You think it’s great?”

He seemed desperate for approval, something Bucky did not hesitate to give.

“I think fighting for what you believe in is the best thing you could do,” Bucky announced.

Steve beamed, blood and mud caked on his face. “I ain’t ever seen you ‘round, Bucky.”

Bucky nodded. “Jus’ moved here from Indiana,” he said. “My ma thought it was time for a change. You been livin’ here all your life?”

Steve nodded. “Born ‘n’ raised,” he said.

“That’s swell,” Bucky said brightly. “You can show me around!”

Steve looked floored. “You mean it?”

“Sure I do,” Bucky said, swinging his arms around Steve’s shoulders. “I been meaning to get to know this neighborhood. How ‘bout you ‘n me go down to the docks, see if we can find any money?”

A wide grin spread across Steve’s face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, staring to walk the way he had been going. “It’ll be fun!”

Sam watched the two scamper off, the tall, dark haired kid next to the shorter, scrawnier blonde. Slowly the others followed along behind.

“Any thoughts on getting outta here?” he asked.

“None,” Natasha said. “Wanda?”

Wanda bit her lip. “It is Bucky’s mind, so maybe we have to find something he considers an exit.”

“What do you mean?” Clint asked.

“Transition,” Wanda elaborated. “Something … something specific to a person. What do you consider the ultimate exit?”

“A door,” Scott offered.

“Original,” Natasha muttered.

Wanda, however, nodded at Scott. “We have to find Bucky’s ultimate exit.”

“So, what, we ask Bucky what he considers an exit?” Sam asked.

“That could be a start,” Wanda offered.

Ahead of them, Steve shouted at a woman, who was as thin as he was with the same blond hair and kind blue eyes. She smiled his smile and wrapped him in a hug. Steve waved wildly at Bucky, who greeted the woman with a nod and a small wave, shy under an adult’s gaze.

“His mother,” Sam said.

No pictures of Sarah Rogers existed, and so Sam took in his fill then. He made sure to memorize everything from the lines around her eyes to the stains on her yellowing nurses’ uniform. She laughed at something Bucky said and accepted the money Steve gave her for safekeeping.

Sam was looking at the woman who had given the world its greatest hero.

And here was Steve, young and sickly, and Sam had never seen someone so alive. He lit up, beaming at something Bucky said. Sarah smiled at Steve, her gaze warm and loving.

Steve Rogers in the twenty-first century often looked lost. Sam noticed of course, but there was little he could do about it. Now, in the memories of Bucky Barnes, he saw what a Steve Rogers who belonged looked like, and it was a beautiful sight.

God, no wonder Steve was so sad. No wonder he was so out-of-place.

No wonder he wanted Bucky back, even if Barnes was a broken soul.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a shadow move. When he turned his head, however, there was nothing there.

==========================================================================================

Sam jolted into the next scene and looked around. He seemed to be in a large room with a yellow tube wide enough to fit a person inside. His heart sank as he saw a chair in the center of the room. It looked like a version of the ones he had seen in the few Hydra files he and Steve had recovered, the ones that talked about controlling the Winter Soldier.

The room was by no means empty—men in which coats bustled around. Standing in front of the doors were a few guards, blank-faced and uncaring.

“It’s nineteen eighty-eight,” Natasha said, her voice echoing oddly in the room. She was glancing over a scientist’s shoulder to read the files he was holding. Her red hair looked darker than usual under the faded light.

“How the hell do we get out of here?” Clint asked Sam in a low voice. “What’s Bucky’s exit, do you think?”

“Don’t look at me,” Sam muttered back. “I got nothing.”

“Soldatul a revenit,” someone shouted, and the nervousness in the atmosphere increased.

In came Bucky, the Winter Soldier in full. His metal arm gleamed in the dull light; his hair was long and dank. However, he was not walking himself. He seemed unconscious, though his eyes were wide open and staring, glazed. Two guards dragged him, one supporting each arm. They did not seem to care about what happened to him as they dragged him up the steps, mindless of his knees banging into the concrete.

“What happened?” one scientist demanded in heavy English. He had an Italian accent.

“Did you not hear?” one of the guards replied, his own accent telling Sam he hailed from Germany.

“No,” the scientist said. “Just that we needed to become operational to hold the Winter Soldier.”

“That is all you need to—” the German guard began stiffly before his companion silenced him.

“The Winter Soldier escaped his handlers in Munich and disappeared for three months,” the second guard said, this one from Poland, if Sam judged correctly. “He has been brought here until he can be moved to Siberia, his new home.”

“He escaped?” the scientist asked. He seemed to be their leader, or at least their spokesperson. He edged closer to Bucky. “He should not have the psychological reserves to resist orders, much less escape.”

“He escaped for three months,” the Polish guard repeated.

“Why so long?” the scientist asked.

“Hydra taught him to hide,” the Polish man replied. “It was difficult to find him.”

“Then how did you?”

The Polish guard smirked. “He was confused. He went to his old home. Brooklyn.”

“Careless,” the scientist said.

“That may be, but he needs to be viped, completely,” the German guard said gruffly. “So stop talking.”

“Put him in the chair,” the scientist said, already distracted as he observed Bucky.

The guards drug Bucky over to the chair, and they left a trail of blood behind them. Nothing about Bucky suggested he was even aware of what was going on around him.

The guards lifted him up onto the chair and straightened his legs. The German guard cupped Bucky’s groin, a leer on his face.

“Er ist ein guter Fick,” he muttered to the Polish guard.

“Das ist ekelhaft,” the Polish guard growled.

The German shrugged. “Wir haben bereits seine Freiheit genommen. Warum nicht mehr?”

The Polish guard made a noise before securing Bucky’s arms. The German guard continued touching Bucky in inappropriate areas, making smug noises under his breath.

“What code word did you use?” one scientist asked, standing well away from the guards. He did not even look at what they were going.

“Treisprezece,” the Polish guard said.

“We will have to reprogram that code,” the scientist muttered to himself before wandering off, making a few notes on the paper on his clipboard.

“This is sick,” Scott said as they watched the movement around Bucky without a care about the person trapped in the chair, trapped in his own mind.

“You’re telling me,” Sam said. “It’s one thing to read about this, or see the end result in Barnes, but this ...”

“What word was that?” Scott asked.

“Thirteen,” Clint said. “It’s Romanian.”

“They used code words a lot in the KGB and Hydra,” Natasha said. “Barnes must have layers upon layers of words all stored in his head.”

It was an unsettling thought made more so when the scientists brought out a little red notebook with a black star pressed into the cover. The scientists flipped through it, muttering to one another. When Sam peered over their shoulder, he saw it was written in a mixture of Cyrillic, English, and German. The little he could read filled him with revulsion.

“We will begin,” the first scientist announced.

That was when Bucky seemed to come to himself. He blinked rapidly, his blue eyes wide and wild. He tensed, and his breathing picked up so much that Sam was honestly afraid he would hyperventilate.

“Steve!” he shouted, trying to break out of his bonds. His metal arm lay limp and useless, and his flesh arm did not seem to be strong enough to break the restraints.

“It is okay, Soldier,” one of the scientists said as they lowered the headband. Bucky screamed, trying to jerk his head away from the torture device, but they had him well and truly trapped.

“Steve, Steve,” Bucky sobbed before a rubber piece was forced in his mouth to protect his tongue. Bucky looked like he wanted to spit it out, and Sam could see him struggle against his training and his conditioning, which forced him to leave it in his mouth and keep it still while he was tortured.

“It will be okay,” the scientist continued. “Soon it will all be gone.”

Another scientist pressed a red button, and Bucky screamed even louder as electricity crackled and fried his brain.

“How do we stop it?” Scott shouted.

“We don’t,” Sam said. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight. “There’s nothing we can do.”

“Steve!” Bucky’s muffled scream was blocked by the mouth guard before he couldn’t remember or couldn’t voice his thoughts and resorted to just screaming long wails that echoed horribly though the room. The scientists and the guards seemed unnerved but resigned. The guards were chatting to one another about their weekend in Germany and the scientists argued over the red book and how best to reprogram the Winter Soldier.

“He escaped,” Natasha said. “In the eighties.”

“So?” Scott asked.

Natasha looked at him, expression blank. “He kept fighting.”

“And they kept frying his brains,” Clint said, looking back at Bucky as he writhed in his chair. “Over and over,” Clint murmured. “How is he even functioning?”

“Were they—did they rape him?” Scott asked, unsettled and hollow-eyed.

“Probably,” Sam said heavily. “’S not like these guys have got a whole lotta morals.”

Everyone looked sick at that idea, even Stark, and they all breathed a sigh of relief when the scientists finally stopped the electricity.

“Soldat,” the German guard demanded.

Bucky’s expression was dazed, blank. He didn’t look like a killer or even like the subdued, quiet man Sam had last seen outside of the Raft prison, piloting the chopper and uncomfortably silent who responded in undertones to Steve only.

Instead, he looked lost more than anything, and Sam could see him latch onto the words, the tone, which was calling him _something_ , who could take away the emptiness in his mind.

“Ya gotov otvechat',” Bucky said tonelessly.

“Oh god,” Sam said. “Oh my fucking god.”

==========================================================================================

Sam was unprepared for the blackness that followed. He couldn’t stop playing it over in his head—Bucky fighting, Bucky strapped down, Bucky tortured, Bucky wiped. Bucky had never had a chance.

When he blinked, and the light came back, he was in a familiar looking room. Bucky sat in a red shirt, strapped down as tightly as he humanly could be. The fake psychiatrist—Zemo—sat in front of him, holding the damned red book.

“We only have to talk about one,” Zemo was saying, an eager, manic glint in his eyes. The room was dark, only backup lights illuminating the space. Bucky had begun to shift uncomfortably, undoubtedly knowing that something was wrong.

He looked sane. He looked in charge of himself.

The freak out that he had experienced, in which he tried to kill most of the Avengers and their allies? If Sam had to guess, he would say that whatever had caused Bucky to attack them, it was not his doing.

“What the fuck,” Clint muttered.

“Žilánie,” Zemo began, standing up and walking slowly towards Bucky.

Bucky closed his eyes helplessly.

“He’s already ensnared,” Natasha murmured as Bucky groaned, “No.”

“Ržávyj,” Zemo continued, heedless to Bucky’s pain.

“ _Stop,_ ” Bucky begged, his hands twitching and rotating uselessly in the cuffs.

“Simnátsatʹ.”

Bucky yelled and pulled his metal arm out of the lock it was under. He quickly tore his other hand free as well.

“Rassvét.” Zemo had begun to move around the cage, and Bucky tried to punch him through the glass. However, it was too strong, and he could only begin to crack it.

“Péčʹ,” Zemo said, watching as Bucky gave up and began pounding on the door.

“Dévjitʹ.” Spider webbed cracks began appearing in the glass and grew bigger with each word. “Dabrasirdéčnyj, vozvraščénije na ródinu, adín …”

With a roar, Bucky came hurtling out of the cage, the demolished door flung away just as Zemo said the last trigger word, “Gruzavój vagón.”

Sam could see the change on Bucky’s face, from the expressive man he had turned into to the terrifying assassin he had first met. Bucky’s eyes were achingly blank, his brow furrowed so that his countenance looked even darker than before.

Zemo rounded the cage cautiously, but Bucky did not attack him. Instead, he stood up with a fluidity that had been missing from the man living in Romania. He held himself differently.

Sam remembered the assassin on the Causeway. This was that man.

“Soldat?” Zemo asked quietly.

“Ya gotov otvechat',” Bucky said.

Sam looked at his friends and found their expressions horrified. Even Stark looked upset. He stared at Bucky as if he had never seen him before. Sam couldn’t imagine what was going on in his mind.

“Mission report. December 16, 1991,” Zemo demanded.

Bucky barely blinked, merely switched to English. “Extraction. Retrieval. No witnesses.” His voice was dead, uncaring. He did not look at Zemo.

“Who were the targets? The witnesses?” Zemo asked.

“Two people. Howard and Maria Stark,” Bucky replied. Sam felt Stark stiffen near him, and when he looked over, he saw that Natasha had put a comforting hand on the billionaire’s shoulder.

“It wasn’t his fault,” she breathed. Stark didn’t acknowledge her.

“Where is the Siberian outpost?” Zemo pressed. “Coordinates.”

Bucky rattled off a long string of numbers, which Zemo seemed to commit to memory.

“Good,” Zemo said as footsteps began growing louder in the distance. Zemo's eyes flickered to the open door, Bucky's didn't waver. “Good. I want you to hide. When the people come, fight them, and then escape. Reset code: Zima.”

Bucky backed into a corner, his expression still terrifyingly blank. They watched, unable to do anything, as Zemo laid down on the ground just as Steve and the memory-Sam jog up.

“Help me,” Zemo groaned as if he had been hurt. He was a good actor, and Sam felt proud of Steve for not falling for it.

Steve made a beeline for Zemo, his expression serious and borderline murderous. He yanked Zemo to his feet and bashed him into the wall. “Who are you? What do you want?”

Zemo glared at Steve, giving up the act. “To see an empire fall.”

Bucky lunged at memory-Sam and while memory-Sam tried to fight back, he was thrown into the cage where he fell to the ground, stunned. Sam winced in remembrance of the pain.

Steve whirled around, and he began to engage Bucky, who fought without restraint. Steve, in his surprise and his hesitance to hurt, was beaten back and pushed down an elevator shaft. Bucky didn’t even blink as he turned away and headed towards the stairs.

Anyone who came across him was killed—guards, civilians, it didn’t matter. He acquired a gun from a member of a security detail and quickly found his way into the lobby, where more and more guards converged on his location.

Bucky made short work of each of them.

Memory-Tony swung around a corner and shot a sound-beam out of his gauntlet. It made Bucky pause, which allowed memory-Tony to release a blast of light. Bucky winced, and memory-Tony had gained enough time to grab the gun. Though Bucky shot it anyway, memory-Tony was able to successfully disarm him … at least until Bucky threw him away with a well-aimed punch.

They watched as both Sharon and memory-Natasha tried to take Bucky out, each as unsuccessful as the last.

“You could at least recognize me,” memory-Natasha hissed, but nothing showed on Bucky’s face—not one slice of recognition.

However, what caught Sam’s attention was T’Challa. When Sam had observed them fighting on the rooftop and the freeway, T’Challa had the upper hand. Sam wasn’t sure if T’Challa was an enhanced human or what, but Bucky seemed to have been losing the battle.

Now, however, Bucky had no restrictions, no humanity. He had no conscious. The fight was brutal, and when T’Challa threw Bucky back down to the first floor, Bucky jumped right back up while T’Challa jumped down, quickly making his way up to the roof while the Wakanda king looked for him.

Up on the roof, Bucky found a helicopter, which he began with ease. Steve burst out of the door Bucky had just used, expression panicked and desperate.

“Holy shit,” Scott said as Steve pulled the helicopter down and forced it, through sheer strength and stubbornness, to remain grounded. Bucky did not recognize Steve and tried to ram the helicopter into him. A small gasp slipped out of Sam when the tail blades nearly whacked Steve, who ducked just in time. It was a noise Sam would deny ever making until his dying breath.

Steve panted when the helicopter died, but Bucky wasn’t done. Heedless of the fact that the helicopter was slipping off the edge, Bucky smashed through the window with his metal arm and grabbed Steve by the neck intent on choking him.

They watched as the two went over, falling into the river below. 

“Shit!” Scott shouted, running over to the edge. The rest of the Avengers quickly joined him, peering down at the water below. Sam only allowed himself to breathe easy when a small blonde dot—Steve’s head—surfaced, dragging up a darker head with him. Bucky was unconscious.

“C’mon,” Sam murmured to the others. “I know where they go.”

There was no hint of the darkness as they walked a few streets over to a warehouse, where Steve and Sam had clamped the metal arm down as tightly as possible.

“So it was the words,” Stark said. “The words can activate the Soldier.”

“And it’s all in that little red book,” Natasha confirmed.

Clint sucked in a deep breath. “And I thought having my mind taken over by Loki was bad. Just that … just that one time.”

"Don't downplay your pain, man," Sam murmured to him. Clint just shook his head.

“Bucky could literally disappear into his programming with a few simple words,” Natasha said. Her face was blank, and Sam wondered if she knew about the code words, or if it had been something she had been forced to forget. She didn't blink as she looked at his unconscious figure. “He’s a walking bomb.”

“And he knows it,” Sam said, thinking back to the defeated expression plastered on Bucky's face after he woke up.

“How do you know that?” Wanda asked. “He—how much does he remember?”

Sam nodded at Bucky. “He told us. You'll hear it.”

“So what do we do?” Scott asked. “I mean, we fought with this guy or—” he eyed Stark and Natasha. “Most of us did, at any rate. But if he could switch sides at any moment…”

“Twenty guesses at to what those two are doing now,” Sam said. His memory-self roved about in the other room restlessly. “I’m guessing they both know full well what Bucky could become.”

“How does he live with it?” Wanda asked.

“I got no damn clue,” Sam said as Bucky began to wake up.

“Hey Cap!” Sam’s memory-self shouted. Steve entered the room and looked down at Bucky, his face a poor attempt at an indifferent mask.

“Steve,” Bucky groaned, trying to shift into a more comfortable position, which was not easy to do. Neither Sam nor Steve wanted the Winter Soldier to be comfortable if that was who they were met with.

Steve hesitated. “Which Bucky am I talking to?”

Bucky’s eyes glittered. He knew what Steve was trying to do. “Your mom’s name was Sarah. You used to wear newspapers on your shoes.”

Steve’s face was heartbreaking. It was relief, joy, and an aching, tentative hope. It was filled with emotions Sam had never seen before and couldn’t even begin to understand. “Can’t read that in a museum.”

Memory-Sam looked nonplused. “What, just like that, we're supposed to be cool?”

Sam winced. Knowing what he knew now, he felt uncomfortable at the unforgiving set in his past self's shoulders, the judgment. Goddamnit, it hadn't been Bucky's fault...

Sam remembered his conflicting emotions during the war between the Avengers. How he had planned to be cordial to Barnes before Barnes had tried to kill him. After that... After that, Sam had held it against Barnes, believing that Barnes was unstable and erratic. He had forgotten that Bucky, though a killer, was still a victim and still the longest-serving prisoner of war. He should have remembered that.

Both Steve and Bucky ignored memory-Sam. “What did I do?” Bucky asked, getting straight to the point.

“Enough,” Steve said, letting out a breath.

Bucky ducked his head, face creased with resignation and guilt. “Oh God, I knew this would happen. Everything Hydra put in me is still there.”

Steve bobbed his head, the serious expression sliding back on. “What did he want?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky admitted, a line between his brows appearing.

Steve grimaced. “A lot of people are dead. I need you to do better than ‘I don’t know’.”

Bucky accepted that, and the furrow grew more pronounced. He tilted his head to the side, straining his already fragmented memory. “He wanted to know about Siberia.”

Steve looked confused. “Why?”

Bucky bowed his head, his expression now dark and sad. “Because I’m not the only Winter Soldier.”

The sound muffled out, the shadows creeping up to engulf the intruders and Sam—

==========================================================================================

—found himself in a small room with a faded, patchy couch that looked several decades old. There was a scratched and battered table shoved up against one wall with two mismatched chairs on either end. There was a small kitchen in one corner, and in another, there was a curtain pulled in front of something—a bed, if Sam had to guess. It was dim—the lights flickered overhead. There was a small window near the couch and a door near the kitchen. It was only slightly larger than Sam’s college dorm room.

Steve and Bucky stood on opposite sides of the room, staring at one another as if they had never seen each other before. Steve looked like he was about twenty, which would make Bucky twenty-one or so. Their chests heaved as though they had just had an enormous shouting match, though they both looked unsure and scared instead of mad.

“What was that?” Steve asked, licking his chapped lips.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said, voice low. “I’m so god damned sorry, Steve.”

“No it’s—” Steve took a deep breath. “You know Edna, right?”

“She’s our next door neighbor, of course I know her,” Bucky muttered.

“Y’know she’s a he?” Steve asked.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Rogers, we literally live a block away from a queer bar. Yes, I know this shit.”

“Then why are you panicking?” Steve challenged.

“I feel like I’m missing something,” Clint said.

“Because you did!” Bucky shouted. “You didn’t—you didn’t want it.” Steve blinked and his thin face morphed into a shocked expression. He was so small; Sam wasn’t sure how Steve even handled the transition to his post-serum self. Bucky continued, not looking at Steve, “Look, just forget, alright? You wanna move out, okay, but that’s not—”

Steve didn’t let him finish—he crossed the room while Bucky watched him helplessly even though he was so much smaller, so frail, and pulled Bucky into a kiss.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Stark said.

Steve and Bucky parted, chests heaving once more.

“You remember when my ma died?” Steve asked, looking at Bucky’s chest.

Bucky nodded, looking dazed. “Yeah. I made you take the tram down to East River just to get you outta Brooklyn, just for a little bit.”

Steve laughed, ducking his head. “Yeah.”

“What about it?” Bucky asked.

“I knew I liked you from the time I was sixteen,” Steve said, and Wanda made a small sound in the back of her throat. “But I didn’t love you ‘til then.”

Bucky laughed, and he looked utterly relieved. “Yeah,” he said. “It was ‘round that time for me, too.”

“You told me you were with me ‘til the end of the line,” Steve said.

“That ain’t changed,” Bucky said quietly. “That won’t ever change.”

“Promise?” Steve asked.

“Promise,” Bucky said before he ducked his head towards Steve’s.

“Well, so many things suddenly make more sense,” Natasha said. She shared a look with Sam.

“No kidding,” Sam said.

“What. The. Hell,” Scott said.

“The old guys are in love,” Stark muttered. “Geriatric romance.”

Bucky and Steve pulled apart again and didn’t look at each other. Instead, Bucky buried his face in the crook of Steve’s neck while Steve leaned into his chest.

“Frank will have won the bet,” Steve muttered.

“Fuck,” Bucky said, laughing breathlessly. “You knew 'bout that?”

“I’m only partially deaf,” Steve said, pulling his head away slightly and smiling up at Bucky.

“You’re such a little punk,” Bucky said and kissed Steve again.

“For real, now,” Steve said, grinning shyly.

Bucky groaned. “What, you want me to stop callin’ you that?”

“Nope,” Steve said and tugged Bucky back down. Bucky was several inches taller than Steve, which made the whole thing a bit more difficult that it should have.

“Well, unintentional voyeurism is something I hadn’t expected today,” Stark said.

“These two are nuts,” Scott said. “Are they insane? Honestly?”

“Probably,” Natasha said. “We need to find an exit, remember?”

They all turned to look at the door, and Clint crossed over and tried to open it. It didn’t budge; his hand went right through it.

“Nope,” Clint said as he rejoined the group.

“What else?” Scott asked.

“The window?” Sam suggested.

They eyed it. It was small. Steve, as he was in the memory, could easily fit in and out of it. Everyone else? Not so much.

“Let’s try touching the glass,” Clint said. He jogged over to the window and tried it—his hand went through it.

“Well, I’m running out of ideas,” Stark said. “One ‘exit’ could be the torture chair—”

“I’m not getting in that,” Natasha said immediately. Sam agreed wholeheartedly—there was no way in hell he was sitting down in such an evil contraption.

“—But no one wants to sit in it,” Stark finished. “So what now?”

Sam eyed the darkness that had begun seeping out of the corners of the room while Steve and Bucky made out, oblivious in their bliss.

“Look out,” he said before he disappeared alongside the others.

==========================================================================================

Sam’s next blink showed him a world of ash and fire.

He whirled around to see Bucky, the Winter Soldier once more, trapped and shouting in pain while the world around him fell away.

“Oh no,” Natasha murmured beside him.

They were on the Helicarrier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harps=Irish. Slang. The Irish were absolutely hated, guys. It's not like today, where being Irish is cool. Being Irish was a pretty big deal to some people. Steve would have been bullied for it, and people would have held it against him. Bucky being Bucky wouldn't have cared.
> 
> “Soldatul a revenit,” (The soldier has returned) Romanian.
> 
> “Er ist ein guter fick,” (He is a good fuck) German.
> 
> “Das ist ekelhaft,” (That is disgusting) German.
> 
> “Wir haben bereits seine freiheit genommen . Warum nicht mehr?” (We have already taken his freedom. Why not more?) German.
> 
> “Ya gotov otvechat',” (Ready to comply) Russian. I found it on tumblr.
> 
> Zima (Winter) Russian.
> 
> The trigger words came from this site: http://kryptaria.tumblr.com/post/143739943625/hydras-trigger-words-for-the-winter-soldier
> 
> If I got any of the translations wrong, please let me know!
> 
> WARNINGS: Bullying, inappropriate and non-con groping as well as allusions to rape, mind control with trigger words, some violence (as seen in CA:CW.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was fire. There was smoke. There was pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done. It's not as long as chapters 2 and 3--and 5 will be about this length, too, just FYI--but I like it.
> 
> Warnings: CA:TWS scenes, so... yeah. Nothing you haven't seen.

Steve jumped from somewhere above them and stumbled when he landed, letting out a small grunt. Sam started at the sudden appearance of Steve, and peered upwards into the smoke. Having been in one of these before, Sam knew Steve had just inserted the chip. Steve was covered in blood—bullets in his body, bruises on his face. Still, he strained, lifting up the bar of metal that trapped Bucky where he lay. Bucky pulled himself out with his metal arm—his flesh arm he held awkwardly by his side.

“You know me,” Steve said, staring at Bucky intensely.

Bucky lashed out, knocking Steve over. “No, I don't!”

More rubble fell around them, and Steve panted out, “Bucky, you've known me your whole life.”

Bucky look confused, so confused. He didn’t look Steve in the eyes—he seemed lost in his head, in the pain and anger and confusion he had felt for seventy years. 

Whatever thoughts he had caused him to lash out, knocking both of them over in the process.

“Your name,” Steve tried again as he staggered upright, “is James Buchanan Barnes.”

“Shut up!” Bucky shouted again, flinging out his metal arm and hitting Steve. They both fell over again.

Steve forced his helmet off before standing fully once more, looking exhausted and tired, yet with a spark of hope that had been missing for some time in the Steve Rogers Sam had seen outside of Bucky’s mind.

“I'm not gonna fight you,” Steve said at last. He dropped the shield, which fell through a hole in the glass and disappeared into the water and the fire. “You're my friend.”

“Shit, Rogers, no,” Natasha muttered.

Bucky barely hesitated. He charged Steve with a roar and knocked them both down, where most of the floor had fallen away. Steve’s head dangled about the water, his eyes resigned.

“You're my mission,” Bucky growled before he began pounding on Steve’s face. With each punch, he repeated, “You're … my … mission!”

Steve’s voice was weak as he said, in between Bucky’s beating, “Then finish it.” This shocked Bucky enough to pause. Steve looked sincere as he continued, “’Cause I'm with you to 'til the end of the line.”

Sam and the rest of the team had crouched beside them, unable to help yet needing to be near. Due to this, Sam saw the dawning realization, the fear and horror, the pain and the suffering, the denial of what he had almost done spread across Bucky’s face as he looked at Steve and _knew_ him this time.

It was pain, it was horror. It was a mix of confusion, realization, and fear. It was a swirling, chaotic mix that reached into Sam’s heart and _pulled,_ hard. It screamed _what have I done_ and _what have I become_ and _this can’t be happening._

Mostly, it shrieked one word.

_Steve._

Sam couldn’t label all the emotions that flickered like dying embers across Bucky’s face—there were too many, all of them complex. All he knew was that he never wanted to see such an expression again on anyone’s face and Sam knew, in that moment, that Bucky knew who Steve was—or, at the very least, knew that Steve was someone he had once loved very much.

And Bucky had almost killed him.

Before Bucky could say anything, a chunk of the Helicarrier fell and knocked Steve into the water.

“That’s how you get out, you know,” a voice said behind Sam.

With a shout, he spun around. The rest of his friends and team did the same—Clint and Natasha looked shocked, off-balance that someone had snuck up on them.

While Bucky hung from the remains of the floor, another version of him—the one Sam had last seen, complete with the shorter-cut hair, the fuller face that spoke of eating real food, and the blasted-off arm he had refused to explain—looked at the wreckage around him.

He was the shadow, Sam realized. The shadow from when Bucky got the news of Steve’s death, from when Steve first introduced Bucky to his mother.

He had been following them, listening to them.

“Barnes,” Sam managed.

“That’s how you get back,” Barnes repeated, avoiding eye contact with all of them. Sam felt Stark stiffen beside him and flung out an arm to block him.

“You fall,” Barnes continued. “That’s how you always get somewhere.”

“Not always,” Natasha said cautiously.

Barnes laughed humorlessly. “This is my mind, my rules, right? You fall to get out.”

“You want us dead,” Stark accused. It was half-hearted. Stark sounded dazed.

Barnes shook his head. “I don’t want anyone dead,” he said softly. He looked young, suddenly. He looked like the man who had pulled Steve out of the alleyway covered in blood and dirt and looking as if there was no place he'd rather be. He looked like the man who had given Steve a kiss one sunny afternoon secreted away from the rest of the world in their tiny apartment. “I never wanted anyone dead.”

“How are you here right now?” Wanda asked. “How are you—are you asleep? Did the gem trap you in here as well?”

Barnes shrugged with one shoulder. “I don't know. But you’ll ... You'll see where I am, maybe.” His expression smoothed itself, hardened, and suddenly the youthful Bucky Sam had just seen fell away until Bucky looked old, older than he had in the forest. Sam wondered how he had kept going, after all of those years. He thought about it, honestly, and couldn’t imagine moving on from what had happened to him. The only reason he had joined the VA—his way of moving on—was because Riley thought it was a good idea…

_Oh._

God, that was the only reason Barnes was still alive.

_Steve._

Barnes was still looking downwards. Sam followed his sightline and saw ripples in the water where Steve had fallen.

“He’s always worth it,” Barnes breathed before jumping past them and falling into the river alongside his past self, hurtling through the air after Steve.

Just like they had always done.

They all disappeared—Steve, Bucky’s memory self, and Bucky’s current, real self. They disappeared into the water with a splash and Sam could no longer see them, just the ripples and wreckage left behind.

“Do we fall?” Clint shouted as he wobbled—the floor was unsteady beneath their feet.

“I don’t know!” Sam replied.

In the end, they weren’t given much of a choice about the falling—one minute they stood on the Helicarrier, the next the ground crumpled beneath them and they were falling...

The wind whistled in their ears and it sounded like the wind of the Alps.

When they had first entered Bucky’s mind, they had been falling away from Steve. Now they were falling towards him.

Sam didn’t believe in Fate or Destiny, but he found something oddly poetic about their story.

Then he fell through the air and the darkness swallowed him hungrily.

==========================================================================================

Sam blinked, and a vaguely familiar ceiling swam into view. Another blink and he realized he was in Clint’s safe house.

“Sam!” someone said loudly. He groaned and looked to his right, where Wanda gazed back. She lay next to Vision, who seemed to be unconscious, somehow. From the couch, Stark and Natasha were already levying themselves up into a sitting position from where they had slumped. Clint leaned against the leg of the couch—he had been rushing towards Natasha when the gem had thrust them all into Bucky’s mind.

Scott groaned, “I think I have a concussion.”

“I think I have a migraine,” Stark muttered, pressing his palm to his forehead.

Sam’s eyes found Natasha’s, and she looked down at Clint after a small nod.

“So,” Clint said.

“So,” Natasha agreed.

“What do we do now?” Scott asked.

“I want to help Bucky,” Wanda said immediately. She held Vision in her arms, but her eyes were clear, clearer than they had been since before Lagos. “I can, I think. I can help him.”

“With the mind thing, right?” Clint asked. Wanda nodded.

“I will need to know exactly what they did," she said hesitantly.

“I bet the red book would help,” Natasha said. “And I bet that's what Steve's doing right now.”

“No bet,” Sam said. “Where would Zemo hide it?”

“I'll look.”

They turned to Stark, who was looking out the window into the dull grey. Feeling their eyes on him, he turned around. “What?”

“You hate Bucky,” Clint said bluntly. “I get it. He killed your parents. Why help him?”

Stark sniffed. “Yeah, well, he was brainwashed. I've had some time to calm down. Look,” he began to move around the room, restless, “there wasn't—there wasn't much he could do, and brainwashing, torture ... He was a kid from Brooklyn. I don’t…”

He trailed off. He didn’t seem to know what he wanted to say.

Just as Sam was about to speak, give Stark an out, Stark mumbled, “I'll do this for Cap, because if that had been Rhodey or Pepper...”

No one said anything for a moment. Stark looked lost in thought.

“Well,” Stark said, his smile obviously fake. “Let's find the book and get Cap's best buddy Bucky back.”

“And how are we going to get in contact with Cap?” Scott asked. He looked around. “Did anyone get his forwarding address?”

“I don’t think Steve wants to be found right now,” Natasha said. She didn’t sound concerned. Knowing Natasha, it would probably take her less than fifteen minutes to find Steve—and that was without Stark’s help and resources.

Sam shrugged. “I got nothing. He said he’d get into contact with us.”

Stark pulled something small and black out of his jacket pocket.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said.

==========================================================================================

Steve looked exhausted when he greeted them in the Moscow airport. He seemed to have aged five years, and his blue eyes were dull. He had grown a beard, and it looked out of place compared to the clean-shaven man from Bucky’s memories and Sam’s own.

“What about the Accords?” Steve asked Stark quietly once everyone was done with their greetings.

“I’m here for business,” Stark said, shrugging. “Check the log books, if you want to. New research facility, which I don’t really need, but who cares.”

Steve hesitated. “Tony—”

“Don’t,” Stark interrupted. “I don’t need your apology, because you’ll actually mean it. I don’t need that.”

Steve subsided, but Sam could tell he was itching to press the issue.

Instead, he looked around at them. Clint was there, Natasha, Wanda, and Scott. Vision, when he had awoken, insisted that he go back to the Compound so that whatever had happened wouldn’t happen again.

“It was remotely accessed,” Vision had told Stark. Sam hadn’t meant to overhear, but it was a small safe house. “I should not use it.”

“See if you can track whoever accessed it,” Stark ordered. “And keep Rhodey company.”

“Call if you need me,” Vision had murmured before going off to find Wanda.

“Thank you for coming,” Steve said, pulling Sam back into the moment.

“Where’s Barnes?” Sam asked, glancing around. He didn’t see the man.

“Not here,” Steve said. He looked even more exhausted—Sam wondered how he was standing. “He’s safe.”

“T’Challa?” Natasha asked pointedly.

Steve shrugged noncommittedly and gestured to the airport doors.

“Zemo had to have had them when he did Bucky’s psych evaluation in Berlin,” Steve said as they walked. “I checked the hotel room where the actual UN psychiatrist was found, but found no sign of it. He probably had it when he went to the Siberian outpost for the codes to get in—there was a keypad—but T’Challa didn’t find it on his person.”

“So he had to have gotten rid of it somewhere in the outpost,” Sam said.

“That was my thinking,” Steve said, pushing open the doors and holding one so that the rest could troop through. “Which means we need a quinjet or a snowplow, because there’s few other ways to get out there.”

Which was why the Winter Soldier was stationed out there, Sam realized. No help for miles if he did escape again.

“What made you change your minds?” Steve asked, hunching over against the wind. He looked sideways at them. “What happened?”

Sam noticed he was mostly looking at Stark.

“There was an incident,” Sam said.

Natasha sighed. “It’s a long story, Rogers.”

Steve’s lips quirked. “When aren’t they?”

Stark butted in, all tact and sympathy. “Did you really meet Barnes because your lunch money was stolen?”

Steve froze and his eyes grew wide. He stared at Stark in shock, in confusion, and Sam almost bumped into him, but managed to sidestep the American Mountain just in time.

“Where did you—?” Steve began.

“Vision’s gem acted up,” Natasha said quietly. “Somehow, we were transported into Bucky’s mind.”

Something like a sob tore itself from Steve’s chest. “Is he okay?”

“Of course that would be your question,” Stark said. “But no, he’s not.”

Sam cleared his throat. “He could be worse,” he said quietly when Steve’s eyes met his.

Steve closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Oh my God,” he said. “Oh my God.”

Natasha stepped up and pulled him into a hug. He went willingly. “Bucky will be okay,” she said. “We spoke to him, and he’s recovering. He remembers you.”

“I know,” Steve said, laughing slightly. “He tried telling me he didn’t, but I knew he was lying.”

“He seemed like a good guy,” Natasha said sincerely.

Steve ducked his head, as he had in his and Bucky’s apartment in the 40s. “He is. The best.”

His use of the present tense didn’t escape Sam’s attention, and a sideways glance at Clint showed it wasn’t lost on him, either.

“Bull Run,” Scott said suddenly. “I’ve been meaning to ask.”

“What?” Steve asked, blinking.

“We saw a lot of things,” Stark said. “Like, a lot. One of them was you two discussing history, of all things. The Battle of Bull Run.”

Steve laughed, and some of the tension eased from his shoulders. “Bull was slang. Meant cop.”

“Police. Run,” Scott said. “Oh! I get it!”

“And you say you’re bad at espionage,” Natasha said.

“I’m really only good when it comes to hiding my friends from the cops,” Steve said, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked at Sam. “I'm not sure why. What all did you see? How—I mean, how much did you …?”

Sam met his eyes. “Quite a bit,” he said gently. “You really want us to tell you?”

Sam had gotten better at reading Steve, he thought. Over the last two years of being his friend and of seeing the kid Steve had once been, he could see the uncomfortableness in Steve’s eyes but the yearning to know nonetheless.

“Yes,” Steve said quietly. “Please tell me.”

And so they began to tell them as they walked into the Moscow air in search of a little red book that would save a man’s mind.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery is long ... But worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I actually got banana bread, here's the last chapter.
> 
> Also, here's where most of the "comfort" comes into play.

Bucky felt the cold. That was not unusual. That, in fact, was normal. He waited for the code words to begin, to tell him what to do.

“Bucky?”

No, the code words ... The code words ... But wait—that was _not_ normal, not anymore. That was not the voice of his handlers.

He opened his eyes.

The person looking down at him had familiar blue eyes, creased with hope and concern. There was a fading scratch above one eye and a bruise along his jaw.

He forced his tongue to work. It was easier when he was not put in the chair. He said the word he knew the best, the one that meant _safety_ and _home_ and _love._ “Steve.”

Steve's smile was like the sun rising, and Bucky had dreamed about it, had missed it so much it was almost a physical ache.

“Why'd you wake me up?” Bucky croaked.

“We found the book,” Steve whispered. “Wanda can deactivate the codes.”

Bucky’s heart almost beat out of his chest. He forced air into his lungs and felt freer, even if Hydra’s presence still lingered within his mind.

“You look tired,” he said instead of addressing his conflicting, confusing rush of emotions.

Steve’s smile faltered. “I haven’t slept for a couple of days.”

Bucky stared. “Then what the hell are you doing? Go get some sleep.”

“No,” Steve said immediately. “I didn’t—I didn’t want you to be in there any longer than you had to be.”

“I wouldn’t have noticed,” Bucky said quietly.

“I would have,” Steve replied. He reached out a hand, which trembled slightly, and placed it on Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky could feel the warmth, the sense of safety and purpose that came with the knowledge that Steve was near, there, right in front of him.

“Earlier,” Steve said. He hesitated, which was how Bucky knew whatever it was, it was going to be deep. “You said you didn’t remember. You read about me in a museum.”

“I lied,” Bucky admitted.

“I know,” Steve said, and a pained look flashed across his face. “You—you also said you didn’t know why you pulled me out of the river.”

“I lied,” Bucky said. The truth rolled easily off his tongue.

Steve nodded jerkily. “Why?”

He looked scared, and vulnerable, and it was then Bucky realized that they were alone. He had noted that earlier, of course—he would never be rid of the Winter Soldier and his training—but now he took notice. There were no doctors, no teammates. No protection for Steve should he need it. No restraints for Bucky if it became necessary.

They were alone, for all intents and purposes, though Bucky had no doubt there were cameras watching his every move.

Choosing not to think about it, he looked back at Steve instead. “Because,” he said, so quietly that nothing but enhanced hearing or the best technology could pick it up, “I needed you to be safe.”

“I was safe,” Steve said, in the same tone as Bucky’s.

“Exactly.” Bucky looked at Steve before lowering his gaze. “You don’t know what sort of monster I became.”

“I know,” Steve said. “I can never, ever understand. But that doesn’t mean I don’t still ... it doesn’t mean I don’t still love you.”

Bucky’s eyes lurched upwards to meet Steve’s, which were already looking back at him.

“It’s legal now, in America,” Steve said. “Marriage between same gender couples. Was made so last year.”

“I remember,” Bucky said quietly.

Steve sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t want to be Captain America anymore,” he said. “I don’t—” he laughed humorlessly. “It was never about that, you know, taking the serum. I could only think about getting over there to be with you, fighting with you.”

Bucky’s laugh was bitter. “I should have just died on that table. With Zola, in Azzano. I should have just died.”

“Don’t say that,” Steve said quietly. “I have never wanted that.”

“I have,” Bucky admitted, whispered, closed his eyes.

Steve couldn’t seem to resist—he pulled Bucky into a hug. Bucky went willingly because Steve was slow and careful and he couldn’t help but trust Steve.

Steve was the only one he had ever truly trusted.

“I love you,” Steve said in his ear, his voice a soothing rumble. “And we’re gonna—we’re gonna get those codes out, and then we can be done.”

“You’ll never be done,” Bucky mumbled into Steve’s collar. “’S not who you are.”

Steve shook with laughter or sobs, it made no difference. “Sometimes I wish I could.”

“No, you don’t,” Bucky said. He pulled back and looked at Steve. “You wanna be done with Cap?”

“God yes,” Steve said.

“Give it to Sam,” Bucky said. “He’d make a good one.”

Steve blinked. “Then what would we do?”

Bucky smiled and for the first time in over seventy years, it felt real.

“Whatever we want, punk.”

Steve’s smile lifted years from his face. “Jerk.”

==========================================================================================

For Bucky, waking up was the hardest thing to do.

Things weren’t perfect. Nobody expected them to be. Things changed. Bucky got help; he spoke with the rest of the Avengers, trying to come to terms with what he did, what he had become. They all supported him as best as they could, from Sharon to Clint, Vision to Scott.

Stark even pulled him aside one day, expression more serious than Bucky had ever seen.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky choked out, unable to look Stark in the eyes. He felt cornered and twitchy, even though Stark wasn’t a very intimidating person without the suit. “I’m sorry.” His flesh hand was trembling, and he couldn’t face Stark. All he could see was Howard’s face, his recognition before the Winter Soldier— _no,_ before _Bucky_ —had beat him to death and made it look like an accident.

“I know you are,” Stark said quietly. He seemed unable to look at Bucky, too. “I don’t—seeing who you were, what happened to you …”

Bucky remained silent. Steve had told them about how they had entered his mind while he was in cryo, and he vaguely remembered telling them to fall.

He also had a second set of memories, hazy and distant ones, where he spoke to phantom voices. Sam had told them about how they could interact with the memories and even encourage him. It wasn’t real—they hadn’t actually time traveled. Now, however, Bucky remembered something different. He could chose to remember someone trying to help him when no one else did, several decades too late.

It was a comfort, even if it was a lie.

“Look,” Stark said abruptly. “There is a lot I didn’t get to say to my father or my mother. There’s a lot I wish I could have said. But you … When I was captured in Afghanistan…” Here he looked uncomfortable. Bucky remained quiet. “I got out,” Stark said. “I didn’t give the terrorists what they wanted and I got myself out. I guess I just thought that you had given up, that you were weak but you…” Stark lifted his eyes to meet Bucky’s. “You didn’t have any options.”

Bucky looked down, unwilling to meet Stark’s eyes.

“And I guess what I’m trying to say …” Stark continued after an awkward pause. “I’m not good at this, can you tell? I guess what I’m saying is that some part of me will always blame you for their deaths.”

Bucky winced and nodded. He would always blame himself, too. For the rest of his life.

“But hey,” Stark said. “I also know you weren’t the one pulling the strings so I guess … I’m going to try to move on. That wasn’t your fault, that wasn’t your choice. You couldn’t do anything, what with the torture and lack of an arm and the brainwashing … So, yeah. I don’t think I can forgive you, not entirely, but I’ll do my best.”

Bucky was aware that a wounded noise was being made. He thought it was coming from him.

“I’m so _sorry,_ ” he whispered. “I never wanted to kill Howard …”

“I know that,” Stark said irritably. “That’s what I just _said._ ”

Bucky tried not to cry. He wanted to show that he could still be strong.

Therefore, he took a deep breath and looked at Stark. “Thank you,” he said, as heartfelt as he could muster.

Now Stark avoided his gaze, nodded, and backed out of the room.

“You can call me Tony,” the other man tossed behind his shoulder.

Thankfully, the other Avengers weren’t so stressful. The most Bucky had done to them was to Natasha and Sam, but they both forgave him more readily than he felt he deserved.

“Man, how much do you remember?” Sam asked a little while after the conversation with Tony. He and Sam stood on a balcony of the Wakanda palace, looking out at the jungle and the enormous panther statue looming in the distance.

“Everything,” Bucky mumbled. “Or near enough.”

“Even the time you and Steve did the whole under cover thing, talking about Bull Run?”

It took Bucky a minute to locate those memories, the three police raids and Frank. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Stupid cops.”

Sam looked gleeful. “You, like, totally helped homosexuals by talking about _history._ ”

Bucky smiled slightly at the ribbing. “I was always into history and science,” he told Sam. “It was Steve who was into art and civil justice. Can you imagine what he’d have been like when the Civil Rights Movement came ‘round?” Bucky had been in cryo or on missions for most of the sixties—he hadn’t been on America soil for most of that decade. Instead, he was sent out to Europe and Asia and in the United States only three times. He was glad he hadn’t been sent more—it made reading up on it later a relief, knowing his hands hadn’t soiled such a movement.

Sam took a minute to contemplate what Bucky had just said. “It would have been terrifying,” he said solemnly.

“‘There’s too many movements goin’ on, Steve,’” Bucky mimicked. “‘You can’t help ‘em _all.’_ And then he’d say, _‘Watch me.’_ ”

Sam cracked up. “He would!”

After that, they were fine, mostly.

The codes Hydra left in his head… Well. It was a long process. Hydra hadn’t put all their eggs in a basket. The red book was a start, but it wasn’t everything. With the help of the Wakandans and Wanda, Bucky slowly began reclaiming his mind. It took months—weeks of grueling horror, where he would work with the scientists and the Avenger for a few hours and sleep for another twelve. His nightmares grew worse, until all he could see was blood behind his lids.

“You literally look like death cooled over,” Tony said three weeks after their last talk. He blinked at Bucky from behind his weird glasses. “Hasn’t Cap been making you sleep?”

Bucky hunched in on himself self-consciously. “Nightmares.”

Tony said nothing further, but a few hours later, Bucky found a box of “Hulk-Strength” sleeping pills on his bedside table. He didn’t take them every night, but he found they usually bought him at least five hours of sleep.

It was enough.

Steve was his rock, but the others pulled their weight, too. They talked or listened, when he needed it. They told him they didn’t blame him for what he had done.

He wasn’t sure if he truly believed them. He knew he would never forgive himself.

After a few months, Bucky finally convinced Steve that there would never be a cure-all. Undoing what Hydra had done would never be over. Some part of Bucky would always live in fear of his own mind, but he would look over at Steve’s blue eyes and his warm smile and think, maybe, his fear could become bearable. A part of him.

There were still bad days.

Bucky tried not to think about them, mostly because the Avengers warned him what that kind of thinking would get him. At least, Natasha pointed out, no one got too badly hurt. No one treated him differently for it. Wanda became one of his favorite Avengers, simply because she could paralyze him. This relief was always tinged with self-loathing—he has seen the occasional flash of fear and surprise that has been echoed in the eyes of his victims for decades. He would leave those sessions with fear and anger in his gut.

Steve never blamed him.

He wondered why he is worth so much to Steve. Bucky didn’t think he would ever be able to answer that question.

The Avengers on the run had based themselves in Wakanda with T’Challa’s blessing, so most of them were in the same place. The other Avengers managed to swoop by under the pretense of collaborating with T’Challa.

So things weren’t perfect. They had managed to work out a system where the rogue Avengers wouldn’t get caught while the “official” Avengers were hung up with the ribbons of bureaucracy. It worked for them, it really did. The world was safer than it had been in a while. With the threat of the Avengers—their power, their strength—fewer disasters showed their ugly mugs.

Tony offered Steve his shield back. Steve declined and gave it to Sam, who would often go out as Captain America, inspiring people the way Steve used to.

“I’m good,” Steve would say whenever Sam offered it back. “Besides, we can always start calling you Eagle.”

“Oh, that is _it._ ” Sam would lunge, and Bucky and the rest of the Avengers would watch as Sam attempted to take Steve down. It never worked.

Steve and Bucky didn’t retire, but they stopped fighting as much. Both had no interest in killing and were content to be the other’s back up. Instead, they helped with restoration of damaged cities and supplied back up for rescue missions, something they both loved.

When Steve did go out, he called himself Nomad.

Bucky had tried to talk him out of it, but Steve wouldn’t be moved. Steve had always been more stubborn than he was.

“I like it,” Steve had told him. “I’m not fighting for a country, anymore. I’m fighting for everyone.”

Bucky had stared at him. “You’re a moron,” he told him after a moment.

Steve had grinned. “I’m _your_ moron, y’know.”

“Yeah,” Bucky had said, a soft smile threatening to split his face. “Yeah, I know.”

Being a hero felt good.

And so the weeks turned into months, the months into a year, and the world’s safety continued to be ensured.

“Y’know,” Steve said, falling back onto their bed a little over a year after they had arrived in Wakanda. “I think things have turned out okay, all things considering.”

“I guess,” Bucky mumbled, tucking his face into the crook of Steve’s neck.

“Buck,” Steve whispered, pressing his face into Bucky’s hair. “God, I’m so glad you’re here.” His voice broke.

Bucky was silent for a few moments. “I wanted to die,” he said quietly.

Steve didn’t freeze or tense up, just began stroking Bucky’s hair. Bucky was thankful. He pushed forward.

“When I—when I realized what I had done, what I had become. I just wanted it all to be over with.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He couldn’t see Steve’s face, but he heard the slight hitch in his breath.

“You,” Bucky murmured, sinking into Steve’s warmth carefully. Steve wrapped him tighter. “Just … I wanted to see you again. I wanted. I wanted to.” God, why were words so hard? “I guess I just wanted to get better for you.”

“When I came out of the ice, I had nothing,” Steve said lowly. “No one I could turn to, no one who knew me—really knew me. I was so utterly alone, but everyone expected me to be strong and act and talk a certain way. I’ve always been sure of my beliefs, but with no one to help me … I think I lost my way.”

“Do you know your way now?” Bucky asked.

Steve smiled. Bucky could feel the curve of it move his hair. “You,” Steve said simply. “It’s always been you, Buck. When I found out you were alive … that’s all I needed to remember who I am.”

“We’re a pair of saps, y’know?” Bucky pointed out.

Steve pressed a kiss to his head. “I know.”

Bucky closed his eyes, content for the first time in decades.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too,” Steve replied.

Bucky had found his home after all these years … and it was Steve.

It was always Steve.

And he felt, maybe, he could begin to heal.

==========================================================================================

Deep in the darkness of space, a figure crawled across the rocks. Its fingers scrabbled for purchase, and its breath wheezed from its throat in a foul cloud.

*My Lord,* it said, peering over the top of the rock ledge. It looked out onto a platform, lit by a distant sun. Staring out into space, his back to the creature, an enormous figure sat on a throne, playing with a gauntlet of some sort on one hand.

*What is it?*

The voice, so deep and menacing, sent chills down the creature’s spine. It bit back a whimper.

*We managed to locate the Mind Gem,* it said. *It is far away, on a planet called Terra. It reacted and pinged on our detector, just as you said it would.* 

The figure turned, and the smile stretching gruesomely across its face nearly caused the creature to topple off its perch and into the recesses of space.

*Then let us go and get it,* Thanos said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7/17/17: [Here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11520006) is a coda I've written for MaOM


End file.
